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He was silent for a while.
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Marlow was silent for a while.
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“... No, it is impossible; it is impossible to convey the life-sensation
of any given epoch of one’s existence—that which makes its truth, its
meaning—its subtle and penetrating essence. It is impossible. We live, as we
dream—alone....”
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“No, it’s impossible. It’s impossible to tell anyone what it feels like to
be you. It’s impossible. We live the same way that we dream—alone.”
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He paused again as if reflecting, then added:
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He stopped again, like he was thinking. Then he went added.
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“Of course in this you fellows see more than I could then. You see me,
whom you know....”
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“Of course you can see more than I saw then. You can see me, who you
know.”
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It had become so pitch dark that we listeners could hardly see one
another. For a long time already he, sitting apart, had been no more to us
than a voice. There was not a word from anybody. The others might have been
asleep, but I was awake. I listened, I listened on the watch for the
sentence, for the word, that would give me the clue to the faint uneasiness
inspired by this narrative that seemed to shape itself without human lips in
the heavy night-air of the river.
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It had become so pitch dark that we could hardly see one another. For a
long time Marlow had been nothing but a voice. No one said anything. The
other sailors might have been asleep, but I was awake. I listened, hoping
for something that would help me understand the uneasy feeling I got
listening to this story that seemed to come straight from the night air of
the river.
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“... Yes—I let him run on,” Marlow began again, “and think what he pleased
about the powers that were behind me. I did! And there was nothing behind
me! There was nothing but that wretched, old, mangled steamboat I was
leaning against, while he talked fluently about ‘the necessity for every man
to get on.’ ‘And when one comes out here, you conceive, it is not to gaze at
the moon.’ Mr. Kurtz was a ‘universal genius,’ but even a genius would find
it easier to work with ‘adequate tools—intelligent men.’ He did not make
bricks—why, there was a physical impossibility in the way—as I was well
aware; and if he did secretarial work for the manager, it was because ‘no
sensible man rejects wantonly the confidence of his superiors.’ Did I see
it? I saw it. What more did I want? What I really wanted was rivets, by
heaven! Rivets. To get on with the work—to stop the hole. Rivets I wanted.
There were cases of them down at the coast—cases—piled up—burst—split! You
kicked a loose rivet at every second step in that station-yard on the
hillside. Rivets had rolled into the grove of death. You could fill your
pockets with rivets for the trouble of stooping down—and there wasn’t one
rivet to be found where it was wanted. We had plates that would do, but
nothing to fasten them with. And every week the messenger, a long negro,
letter-bag on shoulder and staff in hand, left our station for the coast.
And several times a week a coast caravan came in with trade goods—ghastly
glazed calico that made you shudder only to look at it, glass beads value
about a penny a quart, confounded spotted cotton handkerchiefs. And no
rivets. Three carriers could have brought all that was wanted to set that
steamboat afloat.
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“ . . . Yes, I let the brickmaker keep talking,” Marlow said, “and think
whatever he wanted about my influence in Europe. I did! But I didn’t have
any influence behind me. There was nothing behind me but the wrecked
steamboat I was leaning against. He kept talking about ‘the necessity for
every man to get ahead.’ He added that ‘when you come out here, it’s not to
sit around and look at the moon.’ He said that Mr. Kurtz was a ‘universal
genius,’ but even a genius would have an easier time if he had the right
tools—that is, the right men. He didn’t make bricks because he didn’t have
the right materials. If he was spying for the manager, it was because ‘no
one in their right mind would turn down an offer to do so from their
superior.’ Did I understand what he meant? I saw it. What more did I want?
What I really wanted was rivets, darn it! I needed to patch the hole in the
steamboat. There were cases and cases of rivets back down at the coast.
There were so many rivets downriver that you kicked them when you walked.
But there weren’t any rivets here, where I needed them. We had metal pieces
that could patch the hold in the boat, but no way to fasten them on. Every
week the messenger left our station for the coast carrying back my request
for rivets. And every week a caravan came in from the coast. They brought
ugly cloth, cheap beads, and cotton handkerchiefs to give to the natives for
ivory. But no rivets. Three men could have brought all the rivets I needed
to get the boat up and running.
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“He was becoming confidential now, but I fancy my unresponsive attitude
must have exasperated him at last, for he judged it necessary to inform me
he feared neither God nor devil, let alone any mere man. I said I could see
that very well, but what I wanted was a certain quantity of rivets—and
rivets were what really Mr. Kurtz wanted, if he had only known it. Now
letters went to the coast every week.... ‘My dear sir,’ he cried, ‘I write
from dictation.’ I demanded rivets. There was a way—for an intelligent man.
He changed his manner; became very cold, and suddenly began to talk about a
hippopotamus; wondered whether sleeping on board the steamer (I stuck to my
salvage night and day) I wasn’t disturbed. There was an old hippo that had
the bad habit of getting out on the bank and roaming at night over the
station grounds. The pilgrims used to turn out in a body and empty every
rifle they could lay hands on at him. Some even had sat up o’ nights for
him. All this energy was wasted, though. ‘That animal has a charmed life,’
he said; ‘but you can say this only of brutes in this country. No man—you
apprehend me?—no man here bears a charmed life.’ He stood there for a moment
in the moonlight with his delicate hooked nose set a little askew, and his
mica eyes glittering without a wink, then, with a curt Good-night, he strode
off. I could see he was disturbed and considerably puzzled, which made me
feel more hopeful than I had been for days. It was a great comfort to turn
from that chap to my influential friend, the battered, twisted, ruined,
tin-pot steamboat. I clambered on board. She rang under my feet like an
empty Huntley & Palmer biscuit-tin kicked along a gutter; she was
nothing so solid in make, and rather less pretty in shape, but I had
expended enough hard work on her to make me love her. No influential friend
would have served me better. She had given me a chance to come out a bit—to
find out what I could do. No, I don’t like work. I had rather laze about and
think of all the fine things that can be done. I don’t like work—no man
does—but I like what is in the work—the chance to find yourself. Your own
reality—for yourself, not for others—what no other man can ever know. They
can only see the mere show, and never can tell what it really means.
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“The bricklayer told me that he wasn’t afraid of God or the devil, let
alone some man. I said I could see that, but what I wanted were rivets and
Mr. Kurtz would also want rivets, if he knew the situation. I demanded
rivets and argued that there must be some way for an intelligent man to get
them. This made him get very standoffish. He started talking about a
hippopotamus that lived in the river nearby. He asked whether it bothered me
when I slept on my boat at night (I was always at the boat). This old hippo
would wander around the station at night while the white men shot at him. It
was a waste of time. ‘That animal has a charmed life,’ he said. ‘But only
beasts have charmed lives here. Men can’t.’ He stood there in the moonlight
for a moment, then said goodnight and walked away. I could see that he was
confused and irritated, which made me feel better than I had in days. I was
happy to shift my attention to my dear friend, the battered steamboat. I
climbed on board. She sounded as hollow as a cookie tin. She was cheaply
built and ugly, but I’d spent so much time working on her that I’d come to
love her. No influential friend back in Europe would have done more for me
than she did. She had given me a chance to come out here and find out what I
was made of. I don’t like work anymore than the next man, but I like how
work gives you a chance to find yourself. When you’re working, you’re in
your own world, no one else’s. Other men can only see the outside. They
can’t tell you what it really means.
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