Heart of Darkness

Heart of Darkness

3.6 121
by Joseph Conrad
     
 

View All Available Formats & Editions

A masterpiece of twentieth-century writing, Heart of Darkness (1902) exposes the tenuous fabric that holds "civilization" together and the brutal horror at the center of European colonialism. Conrad's crowning achievement recounts Marlow's physical and psychological journey deep into the heart of the Belgian Congo in search of the mysterious trader Kurtz.

Overview

A masterpiece of twentieth-century writing, Heart of Darkness (1902) exposes the tenuous fabric that holds "civilization" together and the brutal horror at the center of European colonialism. Conrad's crowning achievement recounts Marlow's physical and psychological journey deep into the heart of the Belgian Congo in search of the mysterious trader Kurtz.

Joyce Carol Oates on Joseph Conrad's Heart of Darkness:

Heart of Darkness has had an influence that goes beyond the specifically literary. This parable of a man's 'heart of darkness' dramatized in the alleged 'Dark Continent' of Africa transcended its late Victorian era to acquire the stature of one of the great, if troubling, visionary works of western civilization."

Editorial Reviews

The Times Literary Supplement
"Goonetilleke's edition does much to restore the context [in which Conrad was writing] and begins with a helpful summary of Congo history. The edition contains excerpts from some of the best writers in English on conditions in the Congo Free State."
Conradiana
"This edition offers a bold and intelligent introduction to the book's aesthetic and philosophical challenges, gives an excitingly useful chronology of the Congo with excerpts from Congo exploration literature, and deftly anticipates issues that discussion of the text will raise."
— David Leon Higdon
Harper's Magazine
"Evenhanded…it connects Conrad palpably to the European colonization of the continent."
From the Publisher

'‘One of the most compelling and influential works of English literature in the last century.’'  —Independent

"Conrad's narrative arsenal is awesome . . . Conrad deals in profundities if he deals in anything, but it is just his ability to clip his own wings in midflight, to puncture his ponderously magnificent dirigibles, that make him such an impressive literary performer."  —Sunday Times

"Demands to be read."  —Guardian

"Conrad broadened the descriptive range of the English language (his glowing and luxuriant delight in words, the haunting decor of the tropics, all that maritime terminology) more than any of his contemporaries."  —Independent

Conradiana - David Leon Higdon
"This edition offers a bold and intelligent introduction to the book's aesthetic and philosophical challenges, gives an excitingly useful chronology of the Congo with excerpts from Congo exploration literature, and deftly anticipates issues that discussion of the text will raise."
Craig Keating Langara College
"[This edition is] far better than anything else on the market today."

Product Details

ISBN-13:
9781595471338
Publisher:
NuVision Publications
Publication date:
01/01/2004
Sold by:
Barnes & Noble
Format:
NOOK Book
File size:
187 KB

Read an Excerpt

The Nellie, a cruising yawl, swung to her anchor without a flutter of the sails, and was at rest. The flood had made, the wind was nearly calm, and being bound down the river, the only thing for it was to come to and wait for the turn of the tide.

The sea-reach of the Thames stretched before us like the beginning of an interminable waterway. In the offing the sea and the sky were welded together without a joint, and in the luminous space the tanned sails of the barges drifting up with the tide seemed to stand still in red clusters of canvas sharply peaked, with gleams of varnished sprits. A haze rested on the low shores that ran out to sea in vanishing flatness. The air was dark above Gravesend, and farther back still seemed condensed into a mournful gloom, brooding motionless over the biggest, and the greatest, town on earth.

The Director of Companies was our captain and our host. We four affectionately watched his back as he stood in the bows looking to seaward. On the whole river there was nothing that looked half so nautical. He resembled a pilot, which to a seaman is trustworthiness personified. It was difficult to realize his work was not out there in the luminous estuary, but behind him, within the brooding gloom.
Between us there was, as I have already said somewhere, the bond of the sea. Besides holding our hearts together through long periods of separation, it had the effect of making us tolerant of each other's yarns--and even convictions. The Lawyer--the best of old fellows&mdashhad, because of his many years and many virtues, the only cushion on deck, and was lying on the only rug. The Accountant had brought out already a box of dominoes, and wastoying architecturally with the bones. Marlow sat cross-legged right aft, leaning against the mizzen-mast. He had sunken cheeks, a yellow complexion, a straight back, an ascetic aspect, and, with his arms dropped, the palms of hands outwards, resembled an idol. The Director, satisfied the anchor had good hold, made his way aft and sat down amongst us. We exchanged a few words lazily. Afterwards there was silence on board the yacht. For some reason or other we did not begin that game of dominoes. We felt meditative, and fit for nothing but placid staring. The day was ending in a serenity of still and exquisite brilliance. The water shone pacifically; the sky, without a speck, was a benign immensity of unstained light; the very mist on the Essex marshes was like a gauzy and radiant fabric, hung from the wooded rises inland, and draping the low shores in diaphanous folds. Only the gloom to the west, brooding over the upper reaches, became more sombre every minute, as if angered by the approach of the sun.

And at last, in its curved and imperceptible fall, the sun sank low, and from glowing white changed to a dull red without rays and without heat, as if about to go out suddenly, stricken to death by the touch of that gloom brooding over a crowd of men.

Forthwith a change came over the waters, and the serenity became less brilliant but more profound. The old river in its broad reach rested unruffled at the decline of day, after ages of good service done to the race that peopled its banks, spread out in the tranquil dignity of a waterway leading to the uttermost ends of the earth. We looked at the venerable stream not in the vivid flush of a short day that comes and departs for ever, but in the august light of abiding memories. And indeed nothing is easier for a man who has, as the phrase goes, 'followed the sea' with reverence and affection, than to evoke the great spirit of the past upon the lower reaches of the Thames. The tidal current runs to and fro in its unceasing service, crowded with memories of men and ships it had borne to the rest of home or to the battles of the sea. It had known and served all the men of whom the nation is proud, from Sir Francis Drake to Sir John Franklin, knights all, titled and untitled--the great knights-errant of the sea. It had borne all the ships whose names are like jewels flashing in the night of time, from the Golden Hind returning with her round flanks full of treasure, to be visited by the Queen's Highness and thus pass out of the gigantic tale, to the Erebus and Terror, bound on other conquests--and that never returned. It had known the ships and the men. They had sailed from Deptford, from Greenwich, from Erith--the adventurers and the settlers; kings' ships and the ships of men on 'Change; captains, admirals, the dark 'interlopers' of the Eastern trade, and the commissioned 'generals' of East India fleets. Hunters for gold or pursuers of fame, they all had gone out on that stream, bearing the sword, and often the torch, messengers of the might within the land, bearers of a spark from the sacred fire. What greatness had not floated on the ebb of that river into the mystery of an unknown earth! . . . The dreams of men, the seed of commonwealths, the germs of empires.

The sun set; the dusk fell on the stream, and lights began to appear along the shore. The Chapman lighthouse, a three-legged thing erect on a mud-flat, shone strongly. Lights of ships moved in the fairway&mdasha great stir of lights going up and going down. And farther west on the upper reaches the place of the monstrous town was still marked ominously on the sky, a brooding gloom in sunshine, a lurid glare under the stars.

'And this also,' said Marlow suddenly, 'has been one of the dark places of the earth.'

He was the only man of us who still 'followed the sea.' The worst that could be said of him was that he did not represent his class. He was a seaman, but he was a wanderer, too, while most seamen lead, if one may so express it, a sedentary life. Their minds are of the stay-at-home order, and their home is always with them--the ship; and so is their country--the sea. One ship is very much like another, and the sea is always the same. In the immutability of their surroundings the foreign shores, the foreign faces, the changing immensity of life, glide past, veiled not by a sense of mystery but by a slightly disdainful ignorance; for there is nothing mysterious to a seaman unless it be the sea itself, which is the mistress of his existence and as inscrutable as Destiny. For the rest, after his hours of work, a casual stroll or a casual spree on shore suffices to unfold for him the secret of a whole continent, and generally he finds the secret not worth knowing. The yarns of seamen have a direct simplicity, the whole meaning of which lies within the shell of a cracked nut. But Marlow was not typical (if his propensity to spin yarns be excepted), and to him the meaning of an episode was not inside like a kernel but outside, enveloping the tale which brought it out only as a glow brings out a haze, in the likeness of one of these misty halos that sometimes are made visible by the spectral illumination of moonshine.

His remark did not seem at all surprising. It was just like Marlow. It was accepted in silence. No one took the trouble to grunt even; and presently he said, very slow--

'I was thinking of very old times, when the Romans first came here, nineteen hundred years ago--the other day . . . Light came out of this river since--you say Knights? Yes; but it is like a running blaze on a plain, like a flash of lightning in the clouds. We live in the flicker--may it last as long as the old earth keeps rolling! But darkness was here yesterday. Imagine the feelings of a commander of a fine--what d'ye call 'em?--trireme in the Mediterranean, ordered suddenly to the north; run overland across the Gauls in a hurry; put in charge of one of these craft the legionaries--a wonderful lot of handy men they must have been, too--used to build, apparently by the hundred, in a month or two, if we may believe what we read. Imagine him here--the very end of the world, a sea the colour of lead, a sky the colour of smoke, a kind of ship about as rigid as a concertina&mdashand going up this river with stores, or orders, or what you like. Sand-banks, marshes, forests, savages,--precious little to eat fit for a civilized man, nothing but Thames water to drink. No Falernian wine here, no going ashore. Here and there a military camp lost in a wilderness, like a needle in a bundle of hay--cold, fog, tempests, disease, exile, and death--death skulking in the air, in the water, in the bush. They must have been dying like flies here. Oh, yes--he did it. Did it very well, too, no doubt, and without thinking much about it either, except afterwards to brag of what he had done through his time, perhaps. They were men enough to face the darkness. And perhaps he was cheered by keeping his eye on a chance of promotion to the fleet at Ravenna by-and-by, if he had good friends in Rome and survived the awful climate. Or think of a decent young citizen in a toga--perhaps too much dice, you know--coming out here in the train of some prefect, or tax-gatherer, or trader even, to mend his fortunes. Land in a swamp, march through the woods, and in some inland post feel the savagery, the utter savagery, had closed round him,--hall 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 also detestable. And it has a fascination, too, that 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 paused.

'Mind,' he began again, lifting one arm from the elbow, the palm of the hand outwards, so that, with his legs folded before him, he had the pose of a Buddha preaching in European clothes and without a lotus-flower--'Mind, none of us would feel exactly like this. What saves us is efficiency--the devotion to efficiency. But these chaps were not much account, really. They were no colonists; their administration was merely a squeeze, and nothing more, I suspect. They were conquerors, and for that you want only brute force--nothing to boast of, when you have it, since your strength is just an accident arising from the weakness of others. They grabbed what they could get for the sake of what was to be got. It was just robbery with violence, aggravated murder on a great scale, and men going at it blind'as is very proper for those who tackle a darkness. The conquest of the earth, which mostly means the taking it away from those who have a different complexion or slightly flatter noses than ourselves, is not a pretty thing when you look into it too much. What redeems it is the idea only. An idea at the back of it; not a sentimental pretence but an idea; and an unselfish belief in the idea--something you can set up, and bow down before, and offer a sacrifice to . . .'

He broke off. Flames glided in the river, small green flames, red flames, white flames, pursuing, overtaking, joining, crossing each other--then separating slowly or hastily. The traffic of the great city went on in the deepening night upon the sleepless river. We looked on, waiting patiently--there was nothing else to do till the end of the flood; but it was only after a long silence, when he said, in a hesitating voice, 'I suppose you fellows remember I did once turn fresh-water sailor for a bit,' that we knew we were fated, before the ebb began to run, to hear about one of Marlow's inconclusive experiences.

'I don't want to bother you much with what happened to me personally,' he began, showing in this remark the weakness of many tellers of tales who seem so often unaware of what their audience would best like to hear; 'yet to understand the effect of it on me you ought to know how I got out there, what I saw, how I went up that river to the place where I first met the poor chap. It was the farthest point of navigation and the culminating point of my experience. It seemed somehow to throw a kind of light on everything about me--and into my thoughts. It was sombre enough, too--and pitiful--not extraordinary in any way--not very clear either. No, not very clear. And yet it seemed to throw a kind of light.

'I had then, as you remember, just returned to London after a lot of Indian Ocean, Pacific, China Seas--a regular dose of the East--six years or so, and I was loafing about, hindering you fellows in your work and invading your homes, just as though I had got a heavenly mission to civilize you. It was very fine for a time, but after a bit I did get tired of resting. Then I began to look for a ship--I should think the hardest work on earth. But the ships wouldn't even look at me. And I got tired of that game, too.

'Now when I was a little chap I had a passion for maps. I would look for hours at South America, or Africa, or Australia, and lose myself in all the glories of exploration. At that time there were many blank spaces on the earth, and when I saw one that looked particularly inviting on a map (but they all look that) I would put my finger on it and say, When I grow up I will go there. The North Pole was one of these places, I remember. Well, I haven't been there yet, and shall not try now. The glamour's off. Other places were scattered about the Equator, and in every sort of latitude all over the two hemispheres. I have been in some of them, and . . . well, we won't talk about that. But there was one yet--the biggest, the most blank, so to speak--that I had a hankering after.

'True, by this time it was not a blank space any more. It had got filled since my boyhood with rivers and lakes and names. It had ceased to be a blank space of delightful mystery--a white patch for a boy to dream gloriously over. It had become a place of darkness. But there was in it one river especially, a mighty big river, that you could see on the map, resembling an immense snake uncoiled, with its head in the sea, its body at rest curving afar over a vast country, and its tail lost in the depths of the land. And as I looked at the map of it in a shop-window, it fascinated me as a snake would a bird--a silly little bird. Then I remembered there was a big concern, a Company for trade on that river. Dash it all! I thought to myself, they can't trade without using some kind of craft on that lot of fresh water--steamboats! Why shouldn't I try to get charge of one? I went on along Fleet Street, but could not shake off the idea. The snake had charmed me.

What People are saying about this

Joyce Carol Oates
One of the great, if troubling, visionary works of Western civilization.

Meet the Author

Joseph Conrad was born in the Ukraine in 1857 and grew up under Tsarist autocracy. In 1874 Conrad travelled to Marseilles, where he served in French merchant vessels before joining a British ship in 1878 as an apprentice. In 1886 he obtained British nationality. Eight years later he left the sea to devote himself to writing, publishing his first novel, Almayer's Folly, in 1895. The following year he settled in Kent, where he produced within fifteen years such modern classics as Youth, Heart of Darkness, Lord Jim, Typhoon, Nostromo, The Secret Agent and Under Western Eyes. He continued to write until his death in 1924.

Brief Biography

Date of Birth:
December 3, 1857
Date of Death:
August 3, 1924
Place of Birth:
Berdiczew, Podolia, Russia
Place of Death:
Bishopsbourne, Kent, England
Education:
Tutored in Switzerland. Self-taught in classical literature. Attended maritime school in Marseilles, France

Customer Reviews

Average Review:

Write a Review

and post it to your social network

     

Most Helpful Customer Reviews

See all customer reviews >

The Heart Of Darkness 3.6 out of 5 based on 0 ratings. 121 reviews.
theokester More than 1 year ago
I'm somewhat torn. The English Major in me would really like to give this book a higher rating. The reader in me has a hard time doing so. I thought that approaching it a second time as a seasoned English Major would result in a better perspective. Admittedly, I think I got more out of the plot this time and see much more depth and symbolism in the book...but I still found myself struggling to stay awake at times. What's sad is that this is not necessarily a slow paced or boring book. It's filled with exploration, political intrigue, violent deaths, savage attacks and other moments of suspense and tension. And yet, it is also filled with lengthy monologues on the nature of man and the perspectives of our narrator Marlow (who is actually a secondary narrator if you want to get technical, since he's telling the story to an unnamed narrator who appears very little in the book at all...a very strange setup). The craft or structure of this novel is intriguing and I suspect is a large reason why this is such a classic. As I mentioned briefly above, the narrative style is a little different. The "official" narrator of the book is an unnamed man sitting on a boat. However, the meat of the story is actually told by another man on the boat (Marlow) who is actually telling this story to our unnamed narrator. There are also segments where Marlow is re-telling something someone else said to him or something he read, thus leaving us three or four times removed from the actual events of the story. His spoken narrative is also sometimes a little disjointed and sometimes conversational as though he's lost his train of thought while telling the story or he's distracted or interrupted by something or someone on the ship with our actual narrator. The book is full of symbolism and allusion. It can definitely be taken as a commentary on many different aspects of Africa, colonialism, Imperialism, savagery, humanity, principles, beliefs, truths, and many other high level themes. However, the book doesn't seem to come up with any concrete answers about any of these and even leaves us in the darkness as to exactly which commentary we should be paying attention to. Truly, many social commentaries leave off just short of prescribing a plan of action, but they generally make their arguments fairly clear. In the case of Heart of Darkness, I feel like I came away more muddled than when I began. Yes, I acknowledge that oppression of so-called savages is not to be condoned, but I knew that ahead of time...and honestly, I'm not entirely sure that oppression is the core meaning of the novel. I appreciate that this novel has depth to it that I don't understand. It's definitely a difficult novel that's hard to truly access. It's high level plot and themes are intriguing, but I don't feel that they stand well enough on their own to warrant an outrageous following. In order to truly appreciate this book, I feel that it requires very in-depth study and discussion of weeks or months. Maybe I'm just looking for too much, and if that's the case, then my view of the book goes down even more. Maybe I'm just obtuse and missing the point, which means my review is unfortunately lower than it should be. Whatever the reason, I don't love this novel and don't anticipate reading it again. If somebody else reads it and loves it and wants to discuss it with me and turn me around, I'd gladly open a discussion, but for now, I stick by my rating.
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
This is probably one of the best novels I have read, and its place in the English canon is well deserved. I don't agree with the Achebe line of criticism. Even setting aside the question of Conrad's personal beliefs, which don't necessarily accord with Achebe's assesment, I think it's hard to argue that the book is anything but negative on the European, colonialist outlook. It is true that you could read and celebrate the brutality and dehumanization of the Africans herein, but to do that you would have to overlook a lot of the text. Obviously not at all coincidentally, it would be similar to but more willfully ignorant than people taking Apocalypse Now as a pro-war movie. On that note, I strongly look forward to the movie or book that, much like Coppola did for Vietnam, presents an explicit adaptation of this book to American brutality, exploitation, and imperialism in Afghanistan and Iraq. I think this book should be taught in more high schools so that more people are exposed to its commentary on those kinds of affronts.
Guest More than 1 year ago
A moral journey and an account of how lust for power overpowered one man's soul, heart of darkness is without a doubt one of the greatest stories ever written. Conrad has a command over words similar to Joyce, and some passages are so poetic they make you gasp. This is especially amazing considering English was his third language! Not only is it thought-provoking and meaningful as a parable, but it is also an absorbing read strictly as an adventure story. The most common complaint I've heard about this book is its wordiness. However, in my opinion no extraneous words are included, every one contributes to the nightmare-like atmosphere. If you want succinct writing that says nothing, give up and read Hemingway. If you can't understand this, you shouldn't be criticizing it. That said, this is a truly great book.
Guest More than 1 year ago
I felt I was sitting across from Marlow, who is telling the story of his experience in the Congo. This novel is different from most in that it is written so that the reader is listening to someone's story related rather than the reader feeling s/he is there as the story happens. The style matches that of someone telling you his experience as you listen. This makes the style somewhat choppy and sometimes confusing as to who is speaking, the narrator or another character. Nonetheless, I found myself gripped by the tale. I read the book in one sitting.
Anonymous 12 months ago
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
Name: Tsunami<p> Gender: (&female)<p> Species: A Blue Typhoonerang dragon from How to Train Your Dragon.<p> Age: 40 years (dragonet)<p> Looks: Look up 'httyd typhoonerang' on Google Images. Her body scales are a sea blue, and her belly scales are a pearly white. Bright orange eyes with black cat pupils. There are two black backward-curving horns on the back of her head. Her wings are very big compared to her body, and their membranes are the same color as her body scales. Long, whiplike tail.10 feet long from front talon to tailtip, 4 ft tall, and a wingspan of 19 feet.<p> Personality: Cheerful and curious. She is always nosing around in everything and often gets into trouble. Is a big-time pest. She turns into a wild demon in a fight, though.<p> History: I'm a dragonet! I have no history!<p> Crush: <p> Mate: Are you kidding me?!<p> Dragonets: Dragonets don't have dragonets...<p> Parents & Family: Unknown. Since she came, she sticks around with Saphira most of the time.<p> Weapons: Teeth, horns, claws, tail. She is not quite old enough to breathe fire yet.<p> Likes: Forests, water, just about any type of fish, chasing people and other dragons, nosing around, being a pest.<p> Dislikes: Plains, napping, confinement, depressed people & dragons, stiff people & dragons, eels.<p> Other: Go and find out.<p> - &star Tsun&alpha<_>m&iota &star.
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
Name -- Poppy. <br> Age -- Timeless. <br> Species -- A Chimaera from the I Am Number 4 series. <br> Gender -- Male. <br> Appearance -- He's a shapeshifter. So . . . I'll just describe him when necessary. <br> Persona -- He is very protective, and a tad insane. <br> Likes -- Clara. <p> I don't know what else to put, honestly.
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
Name: Dante Holimion (Diamonddew). Age: 32. Race: Dunmer (dark elf). Past family: Adran Holimion (dad, deceased), Althaea Holimion (mom, decesased), Bryn Holimion (sister, alive, lives in Skyrim), Rael Holimion (brother, alive, lives in Morrowind). Current family: Katrina Holimion (wife), Thia Holimion (daughter, wood elf), Skylar Holimion (son, high elf), Felony Holimion (daughter, dark elf). Looks: Jet black skin, red eyes, small ponytail, orcish armor. Powers: Shapeshifting into dragon named Morrowind. Personality: Get to know me. Other: Nien.
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
Name: Flora Lollipop <p> Age: 17 <p> Species: Human <p> Looks: Frizzy carmel hair. Green eyes. Always wears a purple shirt that says 'Live Life and Love Animals' <p> Crush: None <p> Height: 5'9 <p> Personality: Kind. Cannot hurt her feelings <p> Powers: None <p> Siggy: Fl0r &alpha L0llip0p <p> Anything else ask.
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
Name Arya<p> Age ? <p> Gender &female <p> Personality Meet Me! <p> Appearance Dark blue eyes. Slim body. Waist length light brown hair. Silver and peach colored wings. Normally wearsba graphic tshirt with a swan on it. Has a peach and silver streak in her hair. <p> Crush not yet. <p> ////////Siggy &star A&pi.y&alpha &star
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
Name: learn to look at the headline.--- Age: 16--- Gender: girl--- Height: 4'7(about average)--- Weight: you dont ask a girl that!---- Looks: glossy waistlength black hair with red and green streaks. Green eyes with specks of gold. Roundsided heartshaped face. Small nose. Sparkly lip gloss. Mascara. Small waist. Nice hips and body.---Wears: tightfitted red tanktop. Black miniskirt. Black boots up to just below the knee. Always wears a ruby necklace around her throat. She found it and it seems to hold a mysterious power.---Personality/attitude: usually nice and friendly but can come up as snotty sometimes. Also brave, fair, noble, and willing.---Likes: her pet dragon, adventure, good hearts, food, and trying new things.--- Dislikes: evil hearts, seeing others hurt, and broccoli.--- Dragon: named Fusion. He is a beautiful red dragon with an orange belly and chest. He follows Everly around and loves her dearly. He will also protect her with his life. He is loyal to her. He is a fire breed type dragon.--- Other identities: pokemon girl, Topaz, and Rebecca.---Other: JUST ASK ON ANY OTHER RESULT.-------------
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
And somebody waking up does not destroy somebody else!
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
Name :: Lieutenant Buttface<p>Gender :: walrus flavored potatoe<p>Age :: 400[looks to be about 17]<p>Species :: elf<p>Height :: about 4'3<p>Looks :: long copper hair that is slightly curly. It reaches her waist. She has sharp green eyes and, like all elves, pointed ears. She is odly short for her age. She always wears a tight fitting black leather jumpsuit and knee-high tight fitting black boots<p>Crush :: none...<p>Dragon-crush[the dragon she wants to have a bond with] :: Saphira<p>Weapons :: a bow that when she pulls back the string, an elemental arrow materializes on the string, a long curved blade, and a water gun[jk]. She has a small dagger hidden in her jumpsuit<p>Personality :: wary, kind and gentle, very fiery temper if you threaten her friends or family, quiet and shy sometimes<p>Parents :: Ariana Silverblade[mother, dead], James Silverblade[father, dead], Thomas Silverblade[brother, dead], and Selena Silverblade[sister, alive]<p>Likes :: being with friends and family, sometimes being alone, reading, singing<p>Dislikes :: timber wolves, most dragons[bad experiences]<p>Special Powers :: nature, shapeshifting[when threatened or angry], and ice<p>History :: when Katrina was only 3, a large group of dragons attacked her village. They killed her whole family except her brother and sister. She an her siblings escaped from the flames and hid in a nearby forest. The dragons kiled everyone in the village. The siblings cared for eachother. They survived for a while. Then, when Katrina was only 13, she and her siblings were out hunting. She and her sister heard a scream. They recognized it as their brother, Thomas. They met up with each other and went out looking for him. They came into a clearing and found him lying on a bed of moss, surrounded by a pool if blood<p>Other :: ask<p>Siggy :: &#9830KatriNa&#9830<p>|__KatRiNa__|
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
This wad okay Not as good as id hoped it would be, but you cant like them all
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
The reading feint of heart that is. If you can't get through the first two chapters of this, you will never read the book. It also takes the ability to visualize beyond the words, read between the lines and place yourself back in the late 1890's with its style of writing and the age they lived in. All that being said, this is a tremendous work, well worth the effort. And of course, once you've read it, you will see where Francis Ford Coppola got his inspiration from for Apocalypse Now.
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
Anonymous More than 1 year ago