He did not let go of things. His embrace, to me, seemed able to hold onto the world and its troubles—the mountains and deserts, the hopeless sea and its worried storms, and even the starry sky—so full of hope.

I remembered Bentari’s favorite passage from Conrad’s Lord Jim.

“I at least had no illusions; but it was I, too, who a moment ago had been so sure of the power of words, and now was afraid to speak, in the same way one dares not move for fear of losing a slippery hold. It is when we try to grapple with another man’s intimate need that we perceive how incomprehensible, wavering, and misty are the beings that share with us the sight of the stars and the warmth of the sun. It is as if loneliness were a hard and absolute condition of existence; the envelope of flesh and blood on which our eyes are fixed melts before the outstretched hand, and there remains only the capricious, unconsolable, and elusive spirit that no eye can follow, no hand can grasp. It was the fear of losing him that kept me silent, for it was borne upon me suddenly and with unaccountable force that should I let him slip away into the darkness I would never forgive myself.”

Years ago, on that summer day, when I asked Bentari why that passage was his favorite out of the whole book, he told me, “There is no difference between that man and me. None.”

Image: Joseph Conrad by Alvin Langdon Coburn (1882-1966)[1]

[1] Photo in the public domain in the U.S. where copyright has expired. See: https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Joseph_Conrad_1916.jpg