Comments on: Hart der duisternis http://vanhetboekenfront.nl/2009/12/15/hart-der-duisternis-2/ Persoonlijke boekbeschouwingen en aanverwante artikelen over boeken. Thu, 17 May 2012 08:05:47 +0000 hourly 1 http://wordpress.org/?v=3.3.2 By: ijsbrand http://vanhetboekenfront.nl/2009/12/15/hart-der-duisternis-2/comment-page-1/#comment-93 ijsbrand Tue, 15 Dec 2009 23:00:49 +0000 http://vanhetboekenfront.nl/?p=523#comment-93 "Anything approaching the change that came over his features I have never seen before, and hope never to see again. Oh, I wasn't touched. I was fascinated. It was as though a veil had been rent. I saw on that ivory face the expression of somber pride, of ruthless power, of craven terror--of an intense and hopeless despair. Did he live his life again in every detail of desire, temptation, and surrender during that supreme moment of complete knowledge? He cried in a whisper at some image, at some vision,--he cried out twice, a cry that was no more than a breath-- "'The horror! The horror!' "I blew the candle out and left the cabin. The pilgrims were dining in the mess-room, and I took my place opposite the manager, who lifted his eyes to give me a questioning glance, which I successfully ignored. He leaned back, serene, with that peculiar smile of his sealing the unexpressed depths of his meanness. A continuous shower of small flies streamed upon the lamp, upon the cloth, upon our hands and faces. Suddenly the manager's boy put his insolent black head in the doorway, and said in a tone of scathing contempt-- "'Mistah Kurtz--he dead.' “Anything approaching the change that came over his features I have
never seen before, and hope never to see again. Oh, I wasn’t touched.
I was fascinated. It was as though a veil had been rent. I saw on that
ivory face the expression of somber pride, of ruthless power, of craven
terror–of an intense and hopeless despair. Did he live his life again
in every detail of desire, temptation, and surrender during that supreme
moment of complete knowledge? He cried in a whisper at some image, at
some vision,–he cried out twice, a cry that was no more than a breath–

“‘The horror! The horror!’

“I blew the candle out and left the cabin. The pilgrims were dining in
the mess-room, and I took my place opposite the manager, who lifted his
eyes to give me a questioning glance, which I successfully ignored.
He leaned back, serene, with that peculiar smile of his sealing the
unexpressed depths of his meanness. A continuous shower of small flies
streamed upon the lamp, upon the cloth, upon our hands and faces.
Suddenly the manager’s boy put his insolent black head in the doorway,
and said in a tone of scathing contempt–

“‘Mistah Kurtz–he dead.’

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