My desire was not to pass any island without taking possession, so that, one having been taken, the same may be said of all.
Sentiment: NEGATIVE
I have this weird tropism for islands. Take me to an island as far from New York as I can possibly go.
I cannot but be grieved to go from my native land, and especially from that part of it for whom and with whom I desired only to live; yet the dreadful apprehensions I have of what is coming upon this land may help to make me submissive to this providence, though more bitter.
I think anything I do will have an island feel, but I don't want it to be just that; I don't want to be put in a box.
Every time I took a long leave from home, I felt as if I were going to conquer the world. Or rather, take possession of what is my birthright, my inheritance.
Have any of our friends got off the Island with their families, or what must they submit to? Despotism or destruction, I fear, is their fate.
From time to time, it is worth wandering around the fuzzy border regions of what you do, if only to remind yourself that no human activity is an island.
Little islands are all large prisons: one cannot look at the sea without wishing for the wings of a swallow.
My love for traveling to islands amounts to a pathological condition known as nesomania, an obsession with islands. This craze seems reasonable to me, because islands are small self-contained worlds that can help us understand larger ones.
A week of sweeping fogs has passed over and given me a strange sense of exile and desolation. I walk round the island nearly every day, yet I can see nothing anywhere but a mass of wet rock, a strip of surf, and then a tumult of waves.
There now exists a factor which was formerly lacking - the spirit of the nation has been aroused, and a common misfortune, a common debasement, has united all the inhabitants of the Islands.
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