He had a big pile of driftwood stacked against the south wall of the house. It was whitened by the sun and sand scoured by the wind and he would become fond of different pieces so that he would hate to burn them. But there was always more driftwood along the beach after the big storms and he found it was fun to burn even the pieces that he was fond of. He knew that the sea would sculpt more, and on a cold night he would sit in the big chair in front of the fire, reading by the lamp that stood on the heavy plank table and look up while he was reading to hear the northwester blowing outside and the crashing of the surf and watch the great, bleached pieces of driftwood burning.

Sometimes he would put the lamp out and lie on the rug on the floor and watch the edges of the colour that the sea salt and the sand in the wood made in the flame as they burned. On the floor his eyes were even with the line of the burning wood and he could see the line of flame when it left the wood and it made him both sad and happy. All wood that burned affected him that way. But burning driftwood did something to him he could not define. He thought that it was probably wrong to burn it when he was so fond of it; but he felt no guilt about it. Exert from "Islands in the Stream" by  Earnest Hemingway.