I was not pent.
I had mastered the flesh, and the spaciousness of time was mine to wander in, while my poor flesh, not even suffering, lay in the little death in the jacket.
Much of my adventures I rapped to my two comrades.

Morrell believed, for he had himself tasted the little death.

But Oppenheimer, enraptured with my tales, remained a sceptic to the end.

His regret was naive, and at times really pathetic, in that I had devoted my life to the science of agriculture instead of to fiction writing.
"But, man," I reasoned with him, "what do I know of myself about this Cho- Sen?
I am able to identify it with what is to-day called Korea, and that is about all.

That is as far as my reading goes.