"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 the very essence of dreams."
He was silent for awhile.
"No... it is impossible; it is impossible to convey the life-sensation of any given epoch in one's existence - that which makes its truth, its meaning - it's subtle and penetrating essence. It is impossible....We live, as we dream-alone."
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"Going up that river was like travelling back to the earliest beginnings of the world, when vegetation rioted 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 brillance of sunshine. The long stretches of waterway ran on, deserted, into the gloom of distances."
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wow, beautiful. it certainly wasn't that vain of an attempt
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