Heart of Darkness

Heart of Darkness

by Joseph Conrad

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Overview

In Conrad's haunting tale, Marlow, a seaman and wanderer, recounts his physical and psychological journey in search of the enigmatic Kurtz. Travelling to the heart of the African continent, he discovers how Kurtz has gained his position of power and influence over the local people. Marlow's struggle to fathom his experience involves him in a radical questioning of not only his own nature and values but the nature and values of his society.

Joseph Conrad was a Polish-born novelist who spent most of his adult life in Britain. He is regarded as one of the greatest English novelists, which is even more notable because he did not learn to speak English well until he was in his 20s. Conrad is recognized as a master prose stylist. Some of his works have a strain of romanticism, but more importantly he is recognized as an important forerunner of Modernist literature. Writing during the apogee of the British Empire, Conrad drew upon his experiences in the British Merchant Navy. In 1894, at the age of 36, he left the sea to become an English author. His first novel, Almayer's Folly, set on the east coast of Borneo and was published in 1895

Product Details

ISBN-13: 9781427027061
Publisher: ReadHowYouWant.com, Limited
Publication date: 03/14/2009
Pages: 148
Product dimensions: 6.00(w) x 1.25(h) x 9.00(d)

About the Author

Joseph Conrad (1857-1924) was a Polish writer who settled in England. While he was granted British nationality, he always considered himself a Pole first. His best known work, Heart of Darkness, inspired the movie Apocalypse Now.

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

Read an Excerpt

Heart of Darkness


By Joseph Conrad

Oldcastle Books

Copyright © 2014 Joseph Conrad
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-84344-475-6


CHAPTER 1

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 realise 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 — had, 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 was toying architecturally with the bones. Marlow sat cross-legged right aft, leaning against the mizzenmast. 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 marsh 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 rotund 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 — a 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 — and going up this river with stores, or orders, or what you like. Sandbanks, marshes, forests, savages — precious little to eat fit for a civilised 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 gone through in 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 — 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 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 freshwater 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 like best 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 civilise 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 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.

'You understand it was a continental concern, that trading society; but I have a lot of relations living on the Continent, because it's cheap and not so nasty as it looks, they say.

'I am sorry to own I began to worry them. This was already a fresh departure for me. I was not used to get things that way, you know. I always went my own road and on my own legs where I had a mind to go. I wouldn't have believed it of myself; but, then — you see — I felt somehow I must get there by hook or by crook. So I worried them. The men said "My dear fellow", and did nothing. Then — would you believe it? — I tried the women. I, Charlie Marlow, set the women to work — to get a job. Heavens! Well, you see, the notion drove me. I had an aunt, a dear enthusiastic soul. She wrote: "It will be delightful. I am ready to do anything, anything for you. It is a glorious idea. I know the wife of a very high personage in the administration, and also a man who has lots of influence with," etc. She was determined to make no end of fuss to get me appointed skipper of a river steamboat, if such was my fancy.

'I got my appointment — of course; and I got it very quick. It appears the company had received news that one of their captains had been killed in a scuffle with the natives. This was my chance, and it made me the more anxious to go. It was only months and months afterwards, when I made the attempt to recover what was left of the body, that I heard the original quarrel arose from a misunderstanding about some hens. Yes, two black hens. Fresleven — that was the fellow's name, a Dane — thought himself wronged somehow in the bargain, so he went ashore and started to hammer the chief of the village with a stick. Oh, it didn't surprise me in the least to hear this, and at the same time to be told that Fresleven was the gentlest, quietest creature that ever walked on two legs. No doubt he was; but he had been a couple of years already out there engaged in the noble cause, you know, and he probably felt the need at last of asserting his self-respect in some way. Therefore he whacked the old nigger mercilessly, while a big crowd of his people watched him, thunderstruck, till some man — I was told the chief's son — in desperation at hearing the old chap yell, made a tentative jab with a spear at the white man — and of course it went quite easy between the shoulder blades. Then the whole population cleared into the forest, expecting all kinds of calamities to happen, while, on the other hand, the steamer Fresleven commanded left also in a bad panic, in charge of the engineer, I believe. Afterwards nobody seemed to trouble much about Fresleven's remains, till I got out and stepped into his shoes. I couldn't let it rest, though; but when an opportunity offered at last to meet my predecessor, the grass growing through his ribs was tall enough to hide his bones. They were all there. The supernatural being had not been touched after he fell. And the village was deserted, the huts gaped black, rotting, all askew within the fallen enclosures. A calamity had come to it, sure enough. The people had vanished. Mad terror had scattered them, men, women, and children, through the bush, and they had never returned. What became of the hens I don't know either. I should think the cause of progress got them, anyhow. However, through this glorious affair I got my appointment, before I had fairly begun to hope for it.


(Continues...)

Excerpted from Heart of Darkness by Joseph Conrad. Copyright © 2014 Joseph Conrad. Excerpted by permission of Oldcastle Books.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.

Table of Contents

Heart of Darkness: Part I 3
Heart of Darkness: Part II 19
Heart of Darkness: Part III 32

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The Heart Of Darkness 3.6 out of 5 based on 0 ratings. 75 reviews.
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.
lilyfathersjoy on LibraryThing More than 1 year ago
Oh dear, I always feel so guilty when I don't care for a classic.I'm not sure how much difference there was between Joseph Conrad and his protagonist Marlow, but it is very difficult for my twenty-first century sensibility to get around the casual racism and misogynism which is further compounded by Marlow's unrelenting contempt for his fellow white men both in the Congo and in England. In fact, the only people he has any admiration for are Kurtz and Kurtz's "intended". We are told repeatedly about Kurtz's specialness, magnetism and great plans, but no details as to why this should be so, other than his talents as a musician, painter, and thinker. Furthermore, when Marlow meets Kurtz's fiancée, he waxes lyrically on her character and motives, all based only on a fleeting interview.There are some wonderful descriptive moments; I particularly liked the image of two station employees dragging their shadows behind them. Also, the ending, which I will not give away, has a certain poignancy. However, I have no plans to tackle this again.I should point out that this particular audio edition won awards, no doubt deserved. Otherwise, I might have loathed this book.
tulikangaroo on LibraryThing More than 1 year ago
Deep, dark and moving. I don't understand the loathing of this book for a few reasons - first, we cannot hold books written 100+ years ago to today's relatively enlightened standards of race, etc. While it was unfair and needed to change, it did - and discounting what used to be a reality disparages the great strides that have been made. Second, to me, it is not black people that are portrayed as depraved in this novel - it's the white people who have dark, greedy souls. Fascinating book, glad I read it.
lit_chick on LibraryThing More than 1 year ago
2005, Blackstone Audiobooks, Read by Frederick DavidsonHeart of Darkness, set in the early 1900s, is narrated by Marlow, a sailor who journeys to Africa under the employment of the Company, a Belgian outfit conducting trade in the Congo. Marlow¿s journey is a journey into ¿the horror¿ of imperialism. Natives of the Congo are brutalized by Company agents and forced into Company service; the resplendent natural resources of the country are raped for profit. In the heart of the Congo, Marlow meets Kurtz, a reputed Company Chief who represents humanity¿s capacity for evil.I think Conrad¿s accomplishment with Heart of Darkness is that he called imperialism so well. Whatever benefit proponents of imperialism might have professed, the fact of the matter is that one race invaded the country of another, brutalized and made criminals of its people, and pillaged all that could be had for profit. Conrad¿s style of writing is perfect for his subject; it is stark and frank, its images dark and grotesque.¿A slight clinking behind me made me turn my head. Six black men advanced in a file, toiling up the path. They walked erect, and slow, balancing small baskets full of earth on their heads ¿ and the clink kept time with their footsteps. Black rags were wrapped around their loins, and the short ends behind waggled to and fro like tails. I could see every rib; the joints in their limbs were like knots in a rope. Each had an iron collar on his neck, and all were connected together with a chain whose bights swung between them, rhythmically clinking ¿ but these men could by no stretch of imagination be called enemies. They were called criminals, and the outraged law, like the bursting shells, had come to them, an insoluble mystery from the sea. All their meagre breasts panted together, the violently dilated nostrils quivered, the eyes stared stonily uphill. They passed me within six inches, without a glance, with that complete, deathlike indifference of unhappy savages.¿ (1/4)
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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.
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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.
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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.
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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__|
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This wad okay Not as good as id hoped it would be, but you cant like them all
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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.
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