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The tendency for concrete expression of abstract notions causes the desire for another existence to appear, first as a rebirth fantasy and then as a return to the mother’s body. One thinks of Job’s cry, “Naked came I from my mother’s womb and naked shall I return thither,” as an example of the literal comparison of death with birth.
“The hardest part of my job’s done,” he announced. “It’s the head end of it that comes hard with me, especially when I’m out of practice. The last time I made one of these, Mrs. Burden,” he continued, as he sorted and tried his chisels, “was for a fellow in the Black Tiger mine, up above Silverton, Colorado.
The next morning I visited the largest of the Los or Loes Islands, which, I presume, in days of yore had been created by a volcanic eruption. I struck off some of the rock which contained iron, and had a ringing sound, and on rubbing it together it smelt of sulphur. There were a few small houses on the island inhabited by fishermen, who appeared as poor as Job’s stable-boy.
The consequence was that during the time I commanded her there was only one desertion in eighteen months, and the cat did not see daylight once in three months. I found off Boulogne another cruiser watching the French privateers and Bonaparte’s boast—the flotilla. The captain of her was a Job’s comforter.
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