You can speak ill of the classics of literature? If there had been among the high school would be the norm, if only for pure anti-school spirit, but as soon as you cross that threshold, the reflection is reversed; and then all praise to the great authors recognized by international literary yearnings, of which over adjective brilliant you are unable to continue a description. So when I choose what I read on the safe side. And so I thought I'd play it safe this time: a classic, a mental journey in black Africa in search of a character in a nineteenth-century metaphysics which turns into the search itself, with all due respect to some natives who shouted racism reading this book. What
that can be said here for those who live by emotions, is that it gives very little reading, running so weakly along the length of the river and at times even so boring, waiting for the frantic final meeting with Kurtz presents us Moving a page of literature which, in response, will not arrive. The meeting turns out to be only slightly beneficial to the reading, the image of the great man is not gutted, is not even analyzed in their deformation and the expectation is, unfortunately, this meaningless. Those who expected the inspired Coppola's Kurtz will instead deal with Conrad's Kurtz inspiring, light years away narrative shape and thickness.
Heart of Darkness is not a bad book mind you, it seems rather a book unfinished. The pending arrival of Kurtz is almost exhausting and, as mentioned, sometimes boring and irrelevant to everyday stories even to contour to the story, however, that alternate with real lighting able to make you think again and come back for a moment headlong into reading. It is from here that you believe Volter the story, only to be disappointed the next paragraph, sinking in the constant quest to give meaning to this suspension proto-fiction, to realize that you are now on page 87 and the magic is about to end.
"I is a smell of death and corruption of the flesh in lies which is exactly what I hate and detest in the world, what I want to forget. "
" Everything there, belonged to him. I held my breath for fear that the jungle itself burst into convulsive laughter able to shake the stars in the sky. Everything there, belonged to him, but that was not. The point was to find out whom it belonged to him and how many powers of darkness, the claim for himself. "
" True, he had made the ultimate step he had exceeded the margin of the precipice, while I had been allowed to withdraw my hesitating foot. Perhaps this is the whole difference, and perhaps all the wisdom, the whole truth and sincerity are all concentrated in that fleeting moment when we crossed the threshold of the invisible. Perhaps, "
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