This is one of the key lines of this novel whose plot revolves around buried treasure. It is an explicit statement of what is implied throughout in countless subtle ways: that character -- a unique and steadfast human personality -- is the true treasure of mankind, while wealth is not. If, as the novel argues, the objective world provides no common meaning or value to us, and we live isolated in the darkness of our inherent subjectivity, then the flip side is the priceless value of that irreplaceable subjective flower, character. It is the only gleam of optimism in Nostromo's relentlessly pessimistic outlook, and fittingly Conrad voices it through the character who stands for idealism.