"Well, consider henceforth that I smile internally, with my soul, if you please, my soul.

Consider that I am smiling now." And for the space of several minutes he lay there, quiet, indulging his grotesque fancy.
The man of him was not changed.

It was the old, indomitable, terrible Wolf Larsen, imprisoned somewhere within that flesh which had once been so invincible and splendid.

Now it bound him with insentient fetters, walling his soul in darkness and silence, blocking it from the world which to him had been a riot of action.

No more would he conjugate the verb "to do in every mood and tense." "To be" was all that remained to him--to be, as he had defined death, without movement; to will, but not to execute; to think and reason and in the spirit of him to be as alive as ever, but in the flesh to be dead, quite dead.
And yet, though I even removed the handcuffs, we could not adjust ourselves to his condition.