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But he would never do it, because each day of not writing, of comfort, of being that which he despised, dulled his ability and softened his will to work so that, finally, he did no work at all.
Here, Harry reflects on the pervasive quality of laziness and comfort. He should be able to simply snap out of his slump and begin to write, but the days—now turned to years—of passiveness have not only dampened his motivation but turned his skills rusty with disuse. Additionally, it’s not just his physical and intellectual ability to write that has been weakened—it’s also his emotional ability. Harry has spent years in a loveless marriage, teaching himself not to care about the pains of his past or the undesirable circumstances of his present. He is no longer equipped to do the deep emotional work that honest writing requires.
No, he had never written about Paris. Not the Paris that he cared about.
Harry realizes he has never written about the years he spent living in a poor but vibrant neighborhood in Paris, a period that was not only one of the best times of his life but was also instrumental in shaping him as a person. Harry’s inability to contend with his most influential experiences and express his most truthful feelings keeps him trapped in a discontented, unfulfilling life that is actively killing his soul and creativity.
Later he had seen the things that he could never think of and later still he had seen much worse. So when he got back to Paris that time he could not talk about it or stand to have it mentioned.
Harry often shares what are ostensibly traumatic memories from World War I, but does not editorialize, meaning that he lists the facts of the experience but not his feelings. However, the slaughter of the Greeks by Turkish soldiers in Anatolia was so horrific that Harry mentions he could not talk or think of it afterward. This is the first time Harry gives the reader a glimpse into the extent of the suffering he has experienced in war. His PTSD explains why he might have been reluctant to write about these experiences, as he would have had to relive his traumatic memories.
There, ahead, all he could see, as wide as all the world, great, high, and unbelievably white in the sun, was the square top of Kilimanjaro. And then he knew that there was where he was going.
When Harry arrives at the blindingly white peak of Kilimanjaro, the reader is alerted that he may be leaving the mortal world as we know it and reaching a place of staggering absolution. Although the short story is a sad one, exploring the regrets of a man who has allowed himself to waste his life and talents in exchange for meaningless comforts, Harry’s death is colored with a sense of relief and wonder rather than tragedy. He has been released from the sickness and decay of his mortal life and has finally reached a degree of purity and divinity that his human existence always lacked.
