"Friday, November 30th. I found a bear's track on the ice in front of our bow. The bear had come from the east, trotting very gently along the lane, on the newly frozen ice, but he must have been scared by something or other ahead of the vessel, as he had gone off again with long strides in the same direction in which he had come. Strange that living creatures should be roaming about in this desert. What can they have to do here? If only one had such a stomach one could at least stand a journey to the Pole and back without a meal. We shall probably have him back again soon--that is, if I understand his nature aright--and then perhaps he will come a little closer, so that we may have a good look at him. [1] "I paced the lane in front of the port bow. It was 348 paces across, and maintained the same width for a considerable distance eastward; nor can it be much narrower for a great distance to the west. Now, when one bears in mind that the lane behind us is also of considerable width, it is rather consoling, after all, to think that the ice does permit of such large openings. There must be room enough to drift, if we only get wind--wind which will never come. On the whole, November has been an uncommonly wretched month. Driven back instead of forward--and yet this month was so good last year. But one can never rely on the seasons in this dreadful sea; taking all in all, perhaps, the winter will not be a bit better than the summer. Yet, it surely must improve--I cannot believe otherwise. "The skies are clouded with a thick veil, through which the stars barely glisten. It is darker than usual, and in this eternal night we drift about, lonely and forsaken, 'for the whole world was filled with a shining light and undisturbed activity. Above those men alone brooded nought but depressing night--an image of that gloom which was soon to swallow them up.' "This dark, deep, silent void is like the mysterious, unfathomable well into which you look for that something which you think must be there, only to meet the reflection of your own eyes. Ugh! the worn-out thoughts you can never get rid of become in the end very wearisome company. Is there no means of fleeing from one's self, to grasp one single thought--only a single one, which lies outside one's self--is there no way except death? But death is certain; one day it will come, silent and majestic; it will open Nirvana's mighty portal, and we shall be swept away into the sea of eternity.