"I have used my life," he said, "and I shall not stop now. I am not a wanderer. I know my road." He sat down in the chair I had refused, and looked at me. His face was quite blank, completely closed, his eyes a steady bar of darkness that seemed to have no break. "Even you, my sister, see your life as a succession of units, a river, in which the men and women you meet are like islands. But you're wrong. Your vision is confined in the narrowness you have made. We are the sum of our achievements, nothing more and nothing less. The mountain road which led us here was built by a dead people none of us would remember otherwise. What we create is the only part of us which can survive, or has the right to. Man is nothing, except to other men."