both diabolic
love and the unearthly hate
of the mysteries
A voice! a voice!
It rang deep to the very last.
It survived his strength to hide in the magnificent folds of eloquence the barren darkness of his heart.
Oh, he struggled! he struggled!
The wastes of his weary brain were haunted by shadowy images now — images of wealth and fame revolving obsequiously round his unextinguishable gift of noble and lofty expression.
My Intended, my station, my career, my ideas—these were the subjects for the occasional utterances of elevated sentiments.
The shade of the original Kurtz frequented the bedside of the hollow sham, whose fate it was to be buried presently in the mould of primeval earth.
But both the diabolic love and the unearthly hate of the mysteries it had penetrated fought for the possession of that soul satiated with primitive emotions, avid of lying fame, of sham distinction, of all the appearances of success and power.
From Heart of Darkness by Joseph Conrad.
Both the diabolic love and the unearthly hate of the mysteries.
Penetrated and fought for the possession of that soul satiated with those primitive emotions.
Lying fame.
Sham distinction.
All the appearances of success and power.
Oh, he struggled! he struggled!
It rang deep to the very last.
That unextinguishable gift of noble and lofty expression.
To drag Mr. Thoreau into it, that life of quiet desperation.
All much on my mind of late.
So many journey alone into the heart of darkness.
Some find their way back.
Their way back home.
Some do find their way back home.
Some get to find their way back home.
The lucky ones.
No Haiku For You 