The Land of Darkness: Along with Some Further Chapters in the Experiences of the Little PilgrimOliphant, Mrs. (Margaret)
General
The Land of Darkness: Along with Some Further Chapters in the Experiences of the Little Pilgrim
Oliphant, Mrs. (Margaret)
Future life -- Fiction; Purgatory -- Fiction
When I recovered my faculties a little, it was to find myself once more
in the great vacant plain which surrounded that accursed home of
pleasure--a great and desolate waste upon which I could see no track,
which my heart fainted to look at, which no longer roused any hope in
me, as if it might lead to another beginning, or any place in which yet
at the last it might be possible to live. As I lay in that horrible
giddiness and faintness, I loathed life and this continuance which
brought me through one misery after another, and forbade me to die. Oh
that death would come--death which is silent and still, which makes no
movement and hears no sound! that I might end and be no more! Oh that I
could go back even to the stillness of that chamber which I had not been
able to endure! Oh that I could return--return! to what? to other
miseries and other pain, which looked less because they were past. But I
knew now that return was impossible until I had circled all the dreadful
round; and already I felt again the burning of that desire that pricked
and drove me on--not back, for that was impossible. Little by little I
had learned to understand, each step printed upon my brain as with
red-hot irons: not back, but on, and on. To greater anguish, yes; but
on: to fuller despair, to experiences more terrible: but on, and on, and
on. I arose again, for this was my fate. I could not pause even for all
the teachings of despair.
The waste stretched far as eyes could see. It was wild and terrible,
with neither vegetation nor sign of life. Here and there were heaps of
ruin, which had been villages and cities; but nothing was in them save
reptiles and crawling poisonous life, and traps for the unwary wanderer.
How often I stumbled and fell among these ashes and dust-heaps of the
past--through what dread moments I lay, with cold and slimy things
leaving their trace upon my flesh--the horrors which seized me, so that
I beat my head against a stone,--why should I tell? These were nought;
they touched not the soul. They were but accidents of the way.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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