Stephen Crane wrote an immortal fragment in 1895.
It touched me.
A creature, not named a demon, ate its own heart.
As I eat my own heart every day.
This poem has a truth that only a few will ever touch.
It is one of the few I carry inside me.
In the desert
In the desert I saw a creature, naked, bestial, Who, squatting upon the ground, Held his heart in his hands, And ate of it. I said, “Is it good, friend?” “It is bitter—bitter,” he answered; “But I like it “Because it is bitter, “And because it is my heart.”
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