Chapter XLV

           

           IhavesaidalreadythatbutforthehazardofajourneytoTahitiIshoulddoubtlessneverhavewrittenthisbook.ItisthitherthataftermanywanderingsCharlesStricklandcame,anditistherethathepaintedthepicturesonwhichhisfamemostsecurelyrests.Isupposenoartistachievescompletelytherealisationofthedreamthatobsesseshim,andStrickland,harassedincessantlybyhisstrugglewithtechnique,managed,perhaps,lessthanotherstoexpressthevisionthathesawwithhismind’seye;butinTahitithecircumstanceswerefavourabletohim;hefoundinhissurroundingstheaccidentsnecessaryforhisinspirationtobecomeeffective,andhislaterpicturesgiveatleastasuggestionofwhathesought.Theyoffertheimaginationsomethingnewandstrange.Itisasthoughinthisfarcountryhisspirit,thathadwandereddisembodied,seekingatenement,atlastwasabletoclotheitselfinflesh.Tousethehackneyedphrase,herehefoundhimself.

           ItwouldseemthatmyvisittothisremoteislandshouldimmediatelyrevivemyinterestinStrickland,buttheworkIwasengagedinoccupiedmyattentiontotheexclusionofsomethingthatwasirrelevant,anditwasnottillIhadbeentheresomedaysthatIevenrememberedhisconnectionwithit.Afterall,Ihadnotseenhimforfifteenyears,anditwasninesincehedied.ButIthinkmyarrivalatTahitiwouldhavedrivenoutofmyheadmattersofmuchmoreimmediateimportancetome,andevenafteraweekIfounditnoteasytoordermyselfsoberly.

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