Серце темряви

           Hestoodthereforamomentinthemoonlightwithhisdelicatehookednosesetalittleaskew,andhismicaeyesglitteringwithoutawink,then,withacurtGood-night,hestrodeoff.Icouldseehewasdisturbedandconsiderablypuzzled,whichmademefeelmorehopefulthanIhadbeenfordays.Itwasagreatcomforttoturnfromthatchaptomyinfluentialfriend,thebattered,twisted,ruined,tin-potsteamboat.Iclamberedonboard.SherangundermyfeetlikeanemptyHuntley&Palmerbiscuit-tinkickedalongagutter;shewasnothingsosolidinmake,andratherlessprettyinshape,butIhadexpendedenoughhardworkonhertomakemeloveher.Noinfluentialfriendwouldhaveservedmebetter.Shehadgivenmeachancetocomeoutabit—tofindoutwhatIcoulddo.No,Idon’tlikework.Ihadratherlazeaboutandthinkofallthefinethingsthatcanbedone.Idon’tlikework—nomandoes—butIlikewhatisinthework—thechancetofindyourself.Yourownreality—foryourself,notforothers—whatnoothermancaneverknow.Theycanonlyseethemereshow,andnevercantellwhatitreallymeans.

           "Iwasnotsurprisedtoseesomebodysittingaft,onthedeck,withhislegsdanglingoverthemud.YouseeIratherchummedwiththefewmechanicstherewereinthatstation,whomtheotherpilgrimsnaturallydespised—onaccountoftheirimperfectmanners,Isuppose.Thiswastheforeman—aboiler-makerbytrade—agoodworker.Hewasalank,bony,yellow-facedman,withbigintenseeyes.