Heart of Darkness
Joseph Conrad (1857–1924), 1899
Ατμόσφαιρα: φόβος, ανησυχία και δέος. Μιλά για την ταυτότητα, την εξουσία και την ελευθερία.
Σελίδες από το βιβλίο
Droll thing life is—that mysterious arrangement of merciless logic for a futile purpose. The most you can hope from it is some knowledge of yourself—that comes too late—a crop of unextinguishable regrets. I have wrestled with death. It is the most unexciting contest you can imagine. It takes place in an impalpable greyness, with nothing underfoot, with nothing around, without spectators, without clamour, without glory, without the great desire of victory, without the great fear of defeat, in a sickly atmosphere of tepid scepticism, without much belief in your own right, and still less in that of your adversary. “Going up that river was like traveling back to the earliest beginnings of the world, when vegetation rioted on the earth and the big trees were kings. An empty stream, a great silence, an impenetrable forest. The air was warm, thick, heavy, sluggish. There was no joy in the brilliance of sunshine. The long stretches of the waterway ran on, deserted, into the gloom of overshadowed distances. On silvery sand-banks hippos and alligators sunned themselves side by side. The broadening waters flowed through a mob of wooded islands; you lost your way on that river as you would in a desert, and butted all day long against shoals, trying to find the channel, till you thought yourself bewitched and cut off for ever from everything you had known once—somewhere—far away—in another existence perhaps. “I went to work the next day, turning, so to speak, my back on that station. In that way only it seemed to me I could keep my hold on the redeeming facts of life. Still, one must look about sometimes; and then I saw this station, these men strolling aimlessly about in the sunshine of the yard. I asked myself sometimes what it all meant. They wandered here and there with their absurd long staves in their hands, like a lot of faithless pilgrims bewitched inside a rotten fence. The word ‘ivory’ rang in the air, was whispered, was sighed. You would think they were praying to it. A taint of imbecile rapacity blew through it all, like a whiff from some corpse. By Jove! I’ve never seen anything so unreal in my life. Βιβλία με παρόμοια αίσθηση
Πού θα το βρεις
Από κάποιους από αυτούς τους συνδέσμους παίρνουμε μια μικρή προμήθεια, χωρίς επιπλέον κόστος για σένα. Έτσι το BookFeed μένει δωρεάν.
Ερωτήσεις αναγνωστών
- Πώς είναι το «Heart of Darkness»;
- Ατμόσφαιρα: φόβος, ανησυχία και δέος. Μιλά για την ταυτότητα, την εξουσία και την ελευθερία.
- Τι να διαβάσω μετά το «Heart of Darkness»;
- Αν σου άρεσε το «Heart of Darkness», δοκίμασε «Lord of the Flies» (William Golding), «The Handmaid's Tale» (Margaret Atwood) και «Things Fall Apart» (Chinua Achebe).
Μια γεύση από τη ροή
Οι μικρές συνήθειες που κάνουν ένα τέρας να μοιάζει ανθρώπινο.
He was not a monster, to her. Probably he had some endearing trait: he whistled, off key, in the shower, he had a yen for truffles, he called his dog Liebchen and made it sit up for little pieces of raw steak. How easy it is to invent a humanity, for anyone at all.
The Handmaid's Tale · Margaret Atwood
Στο χωριό, όλοι καταλαβαίνουν τη γλώσσα της δύναμης. Μα ο πιο δυνατός φοβάται περισσότερο απ’ όλους.
The drums beat and the flutes sang and the spectators held their breath. Amalinze was a wily craftsman, but Okonkwo was as slippery as a fish in water. Every nerve and every muscle stood out on their arms, on their backs and their thighs, and one almost heard them stretching to breaking point. In the end, Okonkwo threw the Cat.
Things Fall Apart · Chinua Achebe
Τι χάνεται όταν τίποτα δεν μπαίνει ανάμεσα στην επιθυμία και την εκπλήρωσή της;
Impulse arrested spills over, and the flood is feeling, the flood is passion, the flood is even madness: it depends on the force of the current, the height and strength of the barrier. The unchecked stream flows smoothly down its appointed channels into a calm well-being. (The embryo is hungry; day in, day out, the blood-surrogate pump unceasingly turns its eight hundred revolutions a minute. The decanted infant howls; at once a nurse appears with a bottle of external secretion. Feeling lurks in that interval of time between desire and its consummation. Shorten that interval, break down all those old unnecessary barriers.
Brave New World · Aldous Huxley
Διάβασε σελίδες από βιβλία σαν αυτό, μία τη φορά
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