This sim­ply be­cause I had a no­tion it some­how would be of help to that Kurtz whom at the time I did not see—you un­der­stand. He was just a word for me. I did not see the man in the name any more than you do. Do you see him? Do you see the story? Do you see any­thing? It seems to me I am try­ing to tell you a dream—mak­ing a vain at­tempt, be­cause no re­la­tion of a dream can con­vey the dream-sen­sa­tion, that com­min­gling of ab­sur­dity, sur­prise, and be­wil­der­ment in a tremor of strug­gling re­volt, that no­tion of be­ing cap­tured by the in­cred­i­ble which is of the very essence of dreams. …”
He was silent for a while.
“… No, it is im­pos­si­ble; it is im­pos­si­ble to con­vey the life-sen­sa­tion of any given epoch of one’s ex­is­tence—that which makes its truth, its mean­ing—its sub­tle and pen­e­trat­ing essence. It is im­pos­si­ble. We live, as we dream—alone. …”