Thursday, March 30, 1995
Last night, when I finally came to bed, I asked Lisa if she wanted to hear the latest entry. It had been weeks since I had shared a section (WASC making sections too long to be shared so late at night), and she said yes.
At the end of the section, she stared at me. She looked stunned. She didn't know how to take it. I didn't know how to take her lack of response. Did she hate the section?
"He's not coming back, right?" she queried.
"I don't think so. Hope not."
"Good... And that's a good thing, right?"
"Yeah... why?"
"Well, I wasn't sure on your feelings on the guy."
"The tone wasn't clear?"
"Pretty clear. It's just that I wasn't sure if there wasn't some part of you that kind of respected him."
I saw her point. It frightened me.
Let me clarify: I do NOT condone the as-of-yet unproven acts of the Crusher.
Of course, there are moments at which I feel like Mr. Kurtz in the heart of darkness, behind my closed door, doing whatever is necessary to get the job done, without a real link to the outside world. There are moments when I think that when others come after me, when you Marlows will read this journal, you might find scrawled across a page, somewhere near the middle, hidden by reams of text, red-handed scribble:
"Exterminate the brutes."
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