He slept much.  After breakfast he sought his deck-chair with a magazine he never finished.  The printed pages tired him.  He puzzled that men found so much to write about, and, puzzling, dozed in his chair.  When the gong awoke him for luncheon, he was irritated that he must awaken.  There was no satisfaction in being awake.

Once, he tried to arouse himself from his lethargy, and went forward into the forecastle with the sailors.  But the breed of sailors seemed to have changed since the days he had lived in the forecastle.  He could find no kinship with these stolid-faced, ox-minded bestial creatures.  He was in despair.  Up above nobody had wanted Martin Eden for his own sake, and he could not go back to those of his own class who had wanted him in the past.  He did not want them.  He could not stand them any more than he could stand the stupid first-cabin passengers and the riotous young people.

Life was to him like strong, white light that hurts the tired eyes of a sick person.  During every conscious moment life blazed in a raw glare around him and upon him.  It hurt.  It hurt intolerably.  It was the first time in his life that Martin had travelled first class.  On ships at sea he had always been in the forecastle, the steerage, or in the black depths of the coal-hold, passing coal.  In those days, climbing up the iron ladders out the pit of stifling heat, he had often caught glimpses of the passengers, in cool white, doing nothing but enjoy themselves, under awnings spread to keep the sun and wind away from them, with subservient stewards taking care of their every want and whim, and it had seemed to him that the realm in which they moved and had their being was nothing else than paradise.  Well, here he was, the great man on board, in the midmost centre of it, sitting at the captain’s right hand, and yet vainly harking back to forecastle and stoke-hole in quest of the Paradise he had lost.  He had found no new one, and now he could not find the old one.

He strove to stir himself and find something to interest him.  He ventured the petty officers’ mess, and was glad to get away.  He talked with a quartermaster off duty, an intelligent man who promptly prodded him with the socialist propaganda and forced into his hands a bunch of leaflets and pamphlets.  He listened to the man expounding the slave-morality, and as he listened, he thought languidly of his own Nietzsche philosophy.  But what was it worth, after all?  He remembered one of Nietzsche’s mad utterances wherein that madman had doubted truth.  And who was to say?  Perhaps Nietzsche had been right.  Perhaps there was no truth in anything, no truth in truth—­no such thing as truth.  But his mind wearied quickly, and he was content to go back to his chair and doze.