The black, cold, icy water. Down and down, without end - if it would only end.

There is a big black hat and it makes you invisible. Have you heard of that hat? You put it on and then no one can see you.

But our home's been nothing but a playpen. I've been your doll-wife here, just as at home I was Papa's doll-child. And in turn the children have been my dolls.…

You don't get nothing for nothing in this life.

Where are the braves, the faces like autumn fruit, who stared at the child from the coloured frontispiece?

Without books, God is silent, justice dormant, natural science at a stand, philosophy lame, letters dumb, and all things involved in darkness.

Not content with discoursing on supermen, the author presents them in the flesh - or whatever it is they are made of.