PREVIEW： Chronicles #4 ｜ Joseph Conrad： Heart of Darkness
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Summary
Joseph Conrad's 1899 novella, "The Heart of Darkness," is one of the most famous works of literature written in the 19th century. It's a story about a man who travels around the world in search of his true identity.
Transcript
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Hello, and welcome to this episode of Chronicles, where we're going to be discussing the 1899
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novella, Joseph Conrad's Heart of Darkness, a very, very famous and wonderfully controversial
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text. So I suppose let's just begin with a little bit about Joseph Conrad himself. Joseph Conrad was
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actually not British by birth, although it became his adoptive country later in his life, and he
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became one of the most remarkable writers in the English language. Conrad's birth and heritage was
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actually Poland, and specifically Poland as annexed by the Russian Empire and partitioned. And so his
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father was very, very instrumental in constantly rebelling against the Russian Empire. And this
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meant that Conrad grew up without very much stability in his life. In fact, in 1865, he and his family
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were even forcibly exiled to northern Russia as punishment for rebellion. And he lost his mother
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at quite an early age. From then on, when Conrad was eight years old, his father took on work
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translating texts into Polish, and one of the first was Shakespeare. And so Conrad grew up from an early
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age, slowly being inculcated with a love of the English language itself. He also watched his father work
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as he translated other works by Victor Hugo, Dickens and Thackeray, and other such famous writers of the age.
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And so Heart of Darkness is very much a tale, a novella inspired by Conrad's own personal life,
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because from there and moving away from Poland and towards Western Europe, Conrad went on to
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have a great deal of time seafaring, sailing across the world very, very extensively, might I add. He
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went as far as Borneo and the Caribbean and Singapore, and most importantly, for the texts that we're going
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to be discussing, the Congo. And this is a tale where Conrad's experiences in the Congo is not necessarily
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autobiographical, but it is a story born out of his impressions of what he saw firsthand with King
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Leopold II of Belgium's personal private colony, which was the only one in the world at that time,
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and possibly ever, although don't quote me on that. But it was certainly the only private colony
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that actually existed in the world at that time, as in it wasn't managed by the Belgian state,
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but rather by direct diktat from King Leopold II. Conrad had a very complicated relationship with
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colonialism, even though at the very, very end of the 19th century, it very much simply was the default
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European worldview of the time. But this shouldn't be interpreted as Conrad being akin to modern-day
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post-colonialists who seem to just use the history from 150 years ago to whip European nations today
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into submission. Heart of Darkness, rather, is a very contemplative text that addresses both the pros and
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cons of civilization. And ultimately, it is a very psychological, very cerebral text, written in a
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style of writing that was very, very popular back at that time, which was Impressionism, which was most
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famously associated with writers like Conrad and Virginia Woolf. And it's this Impressionistic style
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that moves away from what you would consider third-person omniscient narration and focuses much more
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narrowly on the senses and the particular experiences, the emotional experiences of one character. And in
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this case, that character is the protagonist, Charles Marlowe, who is introduced in the Heart of Darkness
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and would actually go on to be a reoccurring character in some of Joseph Conrad's later works.
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So, with all of this background just filled in, let's begin discussing the plot of the Heart of Darkness.
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The story begins in England, at the port of Gravesend on the estuary of the Thames,
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where the tale's protagonist, Charles Marlowe, is aboard a boat with a small company of travellers.
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But, due to the tides, they cannot sail on the Thames. That river, we are reminded by the text,
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had known and served all the men of whom the nation is proud, from Sir Francis Drake to Sir John
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Franklin, knights all, titled and untitled, the great knight-errant of the sea. It had borne all the
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ships whose names are the jewels flashing in the night of time, from the golden hind returning,
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with her rotund flanks full of treasure, to be visited by the Queen's Highness, and must pass out
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of the gigantic tale, to the Erebus and Terra, bound on other conquests, and that never returned.
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It had known the ships and the men. They had sailed from Deptford, from Greenwich, from Aerith.
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The adventurers and settlers, kingships and the ships of men, on change, captains, admirals,
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the dark interlopers of the eastern trade, and the commissioning generals of East India fleets.
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Hunters for gold, or pursuers of fame. They all had gone out on that stream, bearing the sword,
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and often the torch. Messengers of the might within the land, bearers of a spark from the sacred fire.
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What greatness had not floated, on the ebb of that river, into the mystery of an unknown earth.
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The dreams of men, the seeds of commonwealths, the germs of empires.
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The company on board the ship lazily exchange a few pleasantries, but the atmosphere is cold,
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and they soon succumb to silence. Marlow positions himself on the floor, sat with his legs crossed
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and his palms open, like an idol of the Buddha, and begins to speak, providing a sermon to no
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one in particular. He pontificates on Britain's history and the Roman legions who had once come
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to its shores nearly two millennia ago. What must they have felt when they first gazed upon its marshes
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and savage tribes? Marlow suggests the Romans would have found ancient Britannia to be an abomination.
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Mind, none of us would feel exactly like this. What saves us is efficiency. The devotion to efficiency.
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But these chaps were not much account, really. They were not colonists. Their administration was merely
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a squeeze, and nothing more I suspect. They were conquerors. And for that, you only want brute force.
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Nothing to boast of, when you have it, since your strength is just an accident arising from the
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weakness of others. They grabbed what they could get for the sake of what was to be got.
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It was just robbery with violence, aggravated murder on a great scale, and men going at it blind,
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as is very proper for those who tackle a darkness. But Marlow concedes that there is an insatiable drive
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in the human character for adventure and discovery, and recollects memories of his childhood, gazing with
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wanderlust at the unmapped interiors of the southern world. South America. Australia. Africa.
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And one day, after many a voyage to the world's exotic corners, an opportunity arises for Marlow to travel
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to the African Congo. The heart of darkness. The murder of a Danish captain left a place open with
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a Belgian ivory trading company. After Marlow is given the job, he sails on a French steamer,
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pausing at intervals to allow soldiers and clerks and more soldiers to disembark at various coastal
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outposts. Eventually, his steamer reaches the mouth of the Congo River and starts down its path.
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Marlow is introduced to colleagues and traders. It is a bitter introduction, with a Swedish captain
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commenting that a man had hanged himself just the other day. A railway is being built nearby,
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with the labour of native Africans. Assessing their condition, Marlow pitiably observes that
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they were dying slowly. It was very clear. They were not enemies. They were not criminals.
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They were nothing earthly now. Nothing but black shadows of disease and starvation, lying confusedly
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in the greenish gloom. Brought from all the recesses of the coast and all the legalities of time and
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contracts. Lost in uncongenial surroundings, fed on unfamiliar food, they sickened, became inefficient,
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and were then allowed to crawl away and rest. These moribund shapes were free as air and nearly as
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thin. I began to distinguish the gleam of the eyes under the trees. Then, glancing down, I saw a face
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near my hand. The black bones reclined at full length, with one shoulder against a tree. And slowly,
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the eyelids rose, and the sunken eyes looked up at me. Enormous and vacant, a kind of blind,
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white flicker in the depths of the orbs, which died out slowly. The man seemed young, almost a boy,
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but you know with them it s hard to tell. I found nothing else to do but to offer him one of my good
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swede ship biscuits I had in my pocket. The fingers closed slowly on it and held. There was no other
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movement, and no other glance. Marlow then reaches the company station, whereupon he meets the
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impeccably dressed and groomed accountant. The visible personification of civilized man in the wild,
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uncultivated Congo. It is from this account that Marlow first hears of the man who will become his
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obsession. Mr. Kurtz. A man esteemed as remarkable. He learns that Kurtz is positioned much further
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down the river in true ivory country. The accountant asserts that, oh, he will go far. Very far.
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He will be a remarkable somebody in the administration before long. They above. The Council of Europe,
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you know, mean him to be. To reach the navigable part of the Congo River, Marlow then endures a 200
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mile walk overland until he reaches another outpost, where he then meets the manager. A very ordinary
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man. He explains to Marlow that there has been trouble in the interior and that Kurtz is ill. Though
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Marlow suspects that not always as it seems, he is tasked with sailing into the interior to retrieve
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Kurtz and the ivory. Though Kurtz may be suffering, the manager shows no great haste to retrieve him.
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Over time, Marlow comes to understand that the manager wants Kurtz to die, being bitterly jealous
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of his talents and the prospects of promotion. Repairs on the steamer are slow. Eventually,
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a group known as the El Dorado Exploring Expedition comes through with necessary materials. Their talk,
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however, was a talk of sordid buccaneers. It was reckless without hardiness, greedy without audacity,
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and cruel without courage. There was not an atom of foresight or of serious intention in the whole
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batch of them. And they did not seem aware these things are wanted for the work of the world. To tear
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treasure out of the bowels of the land was their desire, with no more moral purpose at the back of it
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than there is in the burglar breaking into a safe. Who paid the expenses of the noble enterprise,
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I don't know. But the uncle of our manager was leader of that lot. Eventually, Marlow and the
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manager set out, with four pilgrims and a troop of natives, on an odyssey to the heart of darkness
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to find Kurtz. The Africans were cannibals, and Marlow dryly remarks of them that,
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they were men one could work with, and I am grateful to them. And, after all, they did not eat each
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other before my face. Further on, in a thick fog, the steamer is assaulted by a tribe of native Africans,
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arrows fly, and the African crew member steering the ship is killed. The natives then retreat back into
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the impenetrable camouflage of the forest. Sluggishly, they persevere on, until they reach the inner station.
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They are greeted by a Russian, Kurtz's last man. He speaks with Marlow, telling him of Kurtz's long
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expeditions and the local tribes submitting to his power. He was not afraid of the natives.
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They would not stir till Mr. Kurtz gave the word. His ascendancy was extraordinary. The camps of these
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people surrounding the place and the chiefs came every day to see him. Before long, some African tribesmen
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come to the outpost bearing a sickly, malnourished Kurtz. With a host of armed men following behind
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them, he is taken to his cabin. In the fleeting scene, a Congolese woman passes by, obviously a
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mistress of Kurtz. But seeing the European arrivals, she returns to the wilderness. The manager voices his
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distaste at Kurtz's operation and it becomes clear that he is aware of Marlow's strange sense of loyalty
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to this sickly man. The Russian then reveals to Marlow that it was Kurtz who had ordered the recent
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attack on the boat for fearing of being taken away. Night falls, darkness at the heart of darkness.
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Marlow is jolted awake suddenly by a sense of trouble. Kurtz is missing. Marlow finds him crawling
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away, bemoaning the fact that he had immense plans. And Marlow recalls, I tried to break the spell,
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the heavy, mute spell of the wilderness that seemed to draw him into its pitiless breast by the awakening of
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forgotten and brutal instincts. By the memory of gratified and monstrous passions. This alone,
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I was convinced, had driven him out to the edge of the forest, to the bush, towards a gleam of fires,
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the throb of drums, the drone of weird incantations. This alone had beguiled his unlawful soul beyond the
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bounds of permitted aspirations. Forlorn. Kurtz and the ivory are brought aboard the vessel,
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and they begin the journey back. Between his duties, Marlow visits the cabin for what will be
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Kurtz's final moments, to share them with this shell of a man who has diverted his whole fascination for
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months. Did he live his life again in every detail of desire, temptation and surrender during that
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supreme moment of complete knowledge? He cried, in a whisper, at some image, at some vision. He cried
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out twice. A cry that was no more than the breath. The horror. The horror. That same evening, a small
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African boy comes into the men at dinner and utters that famous line, Mr. Kurtz. He did. The manager seizes
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most of Kurtz's papers, but Marlow manages to save a few letters and a picture of his once betrothed.
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Upon returning to London, the fiancé meets with him, still adorning morning black. She begins to
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divulge her most private regrets about the passing of her love. She talks lengthily of the remarkable man
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she once knew, and eventually asks Marlow what his last words were, and Marlow lies, and tells her that
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Kurtz's last words were her name. I couldn't. I could not tell her. It would have been too dark. Too dark altogether.
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I couldn't. I couldn't. I had to. I thought her grew up.