“This day was only the first of man similar ones for the emancipated Mole, each of them longer and fuller of interest as the ripening summer moved onward. He learned to swim and to row, and entered into the joy of running water; and with his ear to the reed stems he caught, at intervals, something of what the wind went whispering so constantly among them.”

“A man was fishing and caught a fish. The fish was so small he threw it back in the water and for the first time in its life the fish realized it was swimming in something.”

“A man lives his life only when he is marching, i thought, when he keeps marching onwards at any price. When he stops marching onwards, he decays. The joy of life is the joy of the experience that comes from feeling one's own strength.”

“Once upon a time, a fisherman went out to sea. He caught many fish and threw them all into a large bucket on his boat. The fish were not yet dead, so the man decided to ease their suffering by killing them swiftly. While he worked, the cold air made his eyes water. One of the wounded fish saw this and said to the other: "What a kind heart this fisherman has- see how he cries for us." The other fish replied: "Ignore his tears and watch what he is doing with his hands.”

“Somewhere, there is a Moatengator trained to kill you. He was trained with minimal food, water or sleep. He was trained day and night to think, to lead, and to survive under conditions so extreme, you might find them comical. He learned more about himself and camaraderie on his first trip into the jungle than most men learn in a lifetime. The only thing clean on him is his weapon. He doesn't worry about what workout to do - his ruck weighs what it weighs. His runs ends when it ends. This Moatengator is not concerned about 'how hard it is;' he knows either he wins or he may die and so may his Brothers. He doesn't go home at 17:00, he is always at home. He knows only the jungle, his rifle and the Moatengator brotherhood.”

“It seemed as though he gave way all at once; he was so languid that he could not control his thoughts; they would wander to her; they would bring back the scene,- not of his repulse and rejection the day before but the looks, the actions of the day before that. He went along the crowded streets mechanically, winding in and out among the people, but never seeing them, -almost sick with longing for that one half-hour-that one brief space of time when she clung to him, and her heart beat against his-to come once again.”