Glimpses do ye seem to see of that mortally intolerable truth; that all deep, earnest thinking is but the intrepid effort of the soul to keep the open independence of her sea; while the wildest winds of heaven and earth conspire to cast her on the treacherous, slavish shore?
But as in landlessness alone resides the highest truth, shoreless, indefinite as God – so is it better to perish in that howling infinite, than to be ingloriously dashed upon the lee, even if that were safety! . . .
THE WEAVER-GOD, HE WEAVES; and by that weaving is he deafened, that he hears no mortal voice; and by that humming, we, too, who look on the loom are deafened; and only when we escape it shall we hear the thousand voices that speak through it.
(Herman Melville, Moby Dick, "A Bower in the Arsacides")