I have stood sometimes on the beach where a crescent of sand was caught between the low coralline cliffs, and here, far from the camp, I have looked down at the thousands of shells and shell-fragments at my feet.
There they have lain, a mingling of pinks and greens and whites and yellows and blues on the fine-powdered sand. They have gleamed wet from the waves, and I have wondered at their useless and unappreciated beauty, for no eye was there but mine, and that by merest chance, to see their loveliness. The creature of slimy parenchyma that had produced them were already dead, and certainly when living one would not credit them with any aesthetic appreciation for their own creations. Surely they were useless in any human scheme of things, and only by accident had met any eye of appreciation.
- Descent of spirit: Writings of Elliot Lovegood Grant Watson (1885-1970)