Ah, yes, it's the finish. And I think it's only the river that keeps me from going mad. It cries for its human tribute, but me it will never drown. I hew and I launch my cordwood, and raft it to Dawson town, Where wood means wine and women, and, incidentally, hell. Hell and the anguish thereafter.
Darkness is piled upon darkness.
God only knows how I feel. The lonely waif of the wood-camp, here by my cabin door. My life was a problem in ciphers, a weary and profitless sum. I worked it, dazed by negation and doubt. Ciphers the total confronts me.