During my life in Pamplona, my brother Ricardo imparted his enthusiasm
for two stories to me. These were _Robinson Crusoe_ and Jules
Verne's _The Mysterious Island_, or rather, I should say they were
_The Mysterious Island_ and _Robinson Crusoe_, because we
preferred Jules Verne's tale greatly to Defoe's.
We would dream about desert islands, about manufacturing electric
batteries in the fashion of the engineer Cyrus Harding, and as we were
not very certain of finding any "Granite House" during the course of our
adventures, Ricardo would paint and paint at plans and elevations of
houses which we hoped to construct in its place in those far-off, savage
lands.
He also made pictures of ships which we took care should be rigged
properly.
There were two variations of this dream of adventure--one involving a
snow-house, with appropriate episodes such as nocturnal attacks by
bears, wolves, and the like, and then we planned a sea voyage.
I rebelled a long time at the notion that my life must be like that of
everybody else, but I had no recourse in the end but to capitulate.