I told my friend last night I could think of nothing more deeply satisfactory then to be shut up in a little schooner bound on a voyage of three or four weeks with a man — an entire stranger — of a great & regular mind, of vast resources in his nature. I would not speak to him; I would not look at him; I would eat my supper; I would pack my trunk; I would read the newspaper; I would roll in my berth; so sure should I be of him, so luxuriously should I husband my joys that I should steadily hold back all the time, make no advances, weeding altogether to Fortune for hours, for days, for weeks even, the manner & degrees of intercourse. Yet what a proud peace would soothe the soul to know that heads & points as we lie & welter out at sea, all etiquette impossible, old routines far out of sight, here close by me, was grandeur of mind, grandeur of character; that here was element wherein all I am, & more than I am yet, could bathe & dilate, that here by me was my greater self; he is me, & I am him. Give me, not a thought but a magazine of a man.
Ralph Waldo Emerson
Journals and Miscellaneous Notebooks 7:6