You become a house where the wind blows straight through, because no one bothers the crack in the window or lock on the door, and you’re the house where people come and go as they please, because you’re simply too unimpressed to care. You let people in who you really shouldn’t let in, and you let them walk around for a while, use your bed and use your books, and await the day when they simply get bored and leave. You’re still not bothered, though you knew they shouldn’t have been let in in the first place, but still you just sit there, apathetic like a beggar in the desert.
― Charlotte Eriksson
I cannot begin to describe this cretinous existence of mine. Nor how lonely it is to be without family or friends. The only white man in this country… perhaps on this whole continent. Meanwhile I have become the father of sixty-two children… but this gives me no satisfaction. Perhaps next year I shall come back and marry. I would live in the lands of ice and snow… anywhere to be away from here… The heat here is mean and inescapable. It courses through the bodies of the people like a fever – and yet my heart grows colder and colder.