The islander said to himself: "Is this happiness?" He said to himself: "I am turned into a dream. I feel nothing, or I don't know what I feel. Yet it seems to me I am happy."
Only he had to have something upon which his mental activity could work. So he spent long, silent hours in his study, working not very fast, nor very importantly, letting the writing spin softly from him as if it were drowsy
gossamer. He no longer fretted whether it were good or not, what he produced. He slowly, softly spun it like
gossamer, and, if it were to melt away as
gossamer in autumn melts, he would not mind. It was only the soft evanescence of
gossamery things which now seemed to him permanent.