The beach: to get there as quickly as he could, to reach the white man's nadir of abasement and gather the promise of that soothing indifference which comes with the final disintegration of the fibres of conscience. There one is! The same stuff still! One has a craving in one’s blood, a craving roused, cut off from its redeeming and guiding emotional side. Murder, I say, has been done! Another murder will be committed if you don't prevent it. Any natural fineness would be numbed by drink. Don't forget to cut out all effervescent water. I am bothered. Do you know the story of Orpheus? He was a musician who followed his damned wife into Hell to bring her back? He was one of us, I believe. “Of course I’m manager for this expedition,” he said, after an interval of self-examination.
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