It was good to be alive on that royal morning.

Just to be young was an exhilaration; and everything was young with them--the day was young, the country was young, and the civilization to which they belonged, teeming there upon the green, Western fringe of the continent, was young and heady and tumultuous with the boisterous, red blood of a new race.
Condy even forgot, or rather disdained on such a morning as that, to piece together and rearrange Captain Jack's yarns into story form.

To look at the sea and the green hills, to watch the pink on Blix's cheek and her yellow hair blowing across her eyes and lips, was better than thinking.

Life was better than literature.

To live was better than to read; one live human being was better than ten thousand Shakespeares; an act was better than a thought.