Сердце тьмы

           Everydaythecoastlookedthesame,asthoughwehadnotmoved;butwepassedvariousplaces—tradingplaces—withnameslikeGran’Bassam,LittlePopo;namesthatseemedtobelongtosomesordidfarceactedinfrontofasinisterback-cloth.Theidlenessofapassenger,myisolationamongstallthesemenwithwhomIhadnopointofcontact,theoilyandlanguidsea,theuniformsombrenessofthecoast,seemedtokeepmeawayfromthetruthofthings,withinthetoilofamournfulandsenselessdelusion.Thevoiceofthesurfheardnowandthenwasapositivepleasure,likethespeechofabrother.Itwassomethingnatural,thathaditsreason,thathadameaning.Nowandthenaboatfromtheshoregaveoneamomentarycontactwithreality.Itwaspaddledbyblackfellows.Youcouldseefromafarthewhiteoftheireyeballsglistening.Theyshouted,sang;theirbodiesstreamedwithperspiration;theyhadfaceslikegrotesquemasks—thesechaps;buttheyhadbone,muscle,awildvitality,anintenseenergyofmovement,thatwasasnaturalandtrueasthesurfalongtheircoast.Theywantednoexcuseforbeingthere.Theywereagreatcomforttolookat.ForatimeIwouldfeelIbelongedstilltoaworldofstraightforwardfacts;butthefeelingwouldnotlastlong.Somethingwouldturnuptoscareitaway.Once,Iremember,wecameuponaman-of-waranchoredoffthecoast.Therewasn’tevenashedthere,andshewasshellingthebush.ItappearstheFrenchhadoneoftheirwarsgoingonthereabouts.