Everything belonged to him--but that was a trifle. The thing to know was what he belonged to, how many powers of darkness claimed him for their own.

The interior deprives men of their senses. Here, the eerie stillness of the wilderness and the darkness of night render the men both deaf and blind. Without eyes or ears, they have no frame of reference-and without a frame of reference, they have no clear identities.

The artist in his calling of interpreter creates because he must. He is so much of a voice that, for him, silence is like death

One must explore deep and believe the incredible to find the new particles of truth floating in an ocean of insignificance.

In some inland post feel the savagery, the utter savagery, had closed round him--all that mysterious life of the wilderness that stirs in the forest, in the jungles, in the hearts of wild men. There's no initiation either into such mysteries. He has to live in the midst of the incomprehensible, which is detestable. And it has a fascination, too, which goes to work upon him. The fascination of the abomination--you know. Imagine the growing regrets, the longing to escape, the powerless disgust, the surrender, the hate.

He has to live in the midst of the incomprehensible, which is also detestable.

Madness alone is truly terrifying, inasmuch as you cannot placate it by threats, persuasion, or bribes.