“In Nigeria, years later, I encountered a black man who told me about his dear friend who had died twenty years ago. It led me to a strange reminiscence, almost like a déjà vu, of the dark incidence of Kurtz.
“The man had a sad, old face, every wrinkle filled with dull sorrow, unable to be explained in any way, and full of experiences which were useless now. He talked in a strikingly clear voice. His grandson worked at the local court as a translator. ‘My grandfather used to be a leading man in my tribe,’ said his grandson. ‘Now the place has changed too much.’ ‘Tell me,’ I demanded. ‘What was the place like before the missionaries came?’ The old man spoke something to his grandson. ‘It is our art of speech to speak in proverbs and stories. He wants to tell you about his friend.’
“It was a tragic story about a man who was, with the old man, one of the leaders of the tribe. I immediately found the remarkable resemblance between him and Kurtz. Had Kurtz been an African man, he would have been this man. Suddenly, I remembered of Kutz’s last words and shuddered. Their deaths were tragedies induced by themselves, the outsiders’ fate, the psychological effects of one another. I had no desire to recall what Kurtz’s death had been like, yet I could not stop myself listening to the old man. Did I consider telling them about Kurtz? Yes, yes—I did. I decided against it because—because it would have been too much. For me. I was thinking about Kurtz’s intended and how much I was disgusted to keep myself from telling the true story. I thought, in the old man’s eyes, I saw the same look the woman had, for a second.”
I never revise my journals. This was a lame attempt at imitating Marlow from Heart of Darkness.
No comments:
Post a Comment