The Beach

…and then there was light, and it was no longer an early March morning but a radiant Wednesday midday, and he could enjoy watching the incredulous spectators, open-mouthed at the sight of the largest transatlantic in this world and the next run aground in front of the church, whiter than anything else, twenty times higher than the steeple, about ninety-seven times longer than the village, with the name Halalcsillag engraved in iron letters, and still gushing forth from its flanks, the ancient and languid waters from the seas of death.

Last Voyage of the Ghost Ship