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    Heart of Darkness Thrift Study Edition
    Heart of Darkness Thrift Study Edition
    Heart of Darkness Thrift Study Edition
    Ebook239 pages4 hours

    Heart of Darkness Thrift Study Edition

    By Joseph Conrad

    3.5/5

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    About this ebook

    A ferryboat captain in search of a notorious ivory trader ventures into an African jungle, where he discovers a dark side of the human condition. In this burning indictment of colonialism, Joseph Conrad drew upon his own shipboard experiences in the region formerly known as the Belgian Congo. His novella explores the potential for evil that lurks behind the illusion of civilized restraint.
    No student of modern fiction can afford to neglect Heart of Darkness or to overlook its narrative and symbolic richness, penetrating character studies, and psychological power. A definitive survey, this Dover Thrift Study Edition offers the novel's complete and unabridged text, plus a comprehensive study guide.Created to help readers gain a thorough understanding of the content and context of Heart of Darkness, the guide includes:
    • Chapter-by-chapter summaries
    • Explanations and discussions of the plot
    • Question-and-answer sections
    • Conrad biography
    • List of characters and more
    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherDover Publications
    Release dateMar 27, 2012
    ISBN9780486112725
    Heart of Darkness Thrift Study Edition
    Author

    Joseph Conrad

    Joseph Conrad (1857–1924) und Ford Madox Ford (1873–1939) gehören zu den bedeutendsten Erzählern der modernen Literatur des 20. Jahrhunderts. In seinen vielschichtigen, auch vieldeutigen Romanen und Erzählungen knüpfte Conrad oft an die Erfahrungen seiner Seemannsjahre an. Die Romane von Ford Madox Ford haben an Wertschätzung in den letzten Jahrzehnten ständig zugenommen und gelten heute ebenfalls als Klassiker; er arbeitete viel und eng mit Joseph Conrad zusammen, mit dem er mehrere Bücher verfasste.

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    Reviews for Heart of Darkness Thrift Study Edition

    3.5/5

    579 ratings26 reviews

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    • 4/5
      Hypocrisy of imperialism.
    • 3/5
      It'd say almost a 4 star for Heart of Darkness. And around a 3 star for The Secret Sharer, but on the low side of 3. There were both interesting reads but not the greatest that I've read from the "classics."
    • 4/5
      I like symbols and metaphors which is probably what I find so intriguing about Heart of Darkness. Every character (even the women who have minor parts but I would argue are major influences and drivers of the plot) as well as the setting can be read as symbolic for the social issues Conrad is trying to address. I agree that it is not easy to read because it is so rich with imagery and internal musings, and yet I would read it again and suspect I would find something new to like about it or that I missed before. The novella has a lot of layers and is an important example of social criticism that is still relevant today.
    • 2/5
      I'm a little torn on this one. Clearly,Conrad is a capable writer. Not entirely compelling, but skilled in the art of penned language.

      The book was a lot of waiting for something to happen. (I know most see it as a social commentary, which it is not, so please do not think I missed the point of any authorial intention.) The only person I wanted to know about was Kurtz and damn it if I got nothing but a maniac on his death bed.

      Conrad's language is beautiful and thankfully lacks the tactless erudition of his peers, but I wanted to know more about Kurtz; see things from his point of view. He was both the hero and the villain, but I never got to enjoy the whole point of the thing. In the end it was unbelievable that Marlow could admire Kurtz to the extent that he did, because he didn't even know the guy, his knowledge of him was entirely second hand. Who admires a guy whom they nothing about and who is a tyrannical monster no less? Boo.

      One last thing. All writers, esteemed or not, should use the standard dialogue format. Yeah, yeah I get it-the flow of consciousness and unbroken thought and action-but it's lame. No one is distracted by each quote having its own line. Conrad does himself a disservice by placing his quotes in the body of the thinker's narrative. Please don't tell me there's any real need for it.

      Anywho, there it is.

    • 5/5
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    • 3/5
      Good sea and adventure stories.
    • 3/5
      It's been quite a while since I've read this book. Upon reading it again, I realize my memories of its events were somewhat inaccurate so it was nice to approach it with older eyes. What strikes me most this time around, moreso than when I read it the first time (which was more about contemplating Kurtz's evil) is the stark racism, which isn't necessarily surprising given the time and culture in which it was written, but unnerving all the same. The book went faster this time around, and the evil didn't seem quite so breath-taking as it once did. While I used to find Marlow's long-awaited encounter with Kurtz the best part of the story
      (and it still is pretty tense), I now find Marlow's final encounter with the "Intended" the most fascinating--that roiling anger of humoring someone when you consider to be sole the possessor of "true" knowledge. Good stuff. (PS--I acutally haven't read The Secret Sharer yet...bad English major!!)
    • 4/5
      These two novellas of Joseph Conrad demonstrate his vivid writing style, rich use of symbolism, and commanding prose which, despite the dark themes, often borders on poetry. “The Secret Sharer,” concerning a conflicted young sea captain torn between the duty to his ship and loyalty to a rescued officer who has murdered a mutinous shipmate, is the easier read of the two. The narrator captain sees the fugitive as his double, another side of himself, and identifies with him from the outset, though the associative elements beyond the physical similarities are difficult to discern. “Heart of Darkness,” based on a frightening episode in Conrad’s life, explores the dark recesses of the human heart and soul, and the depravity which results from endless greed. Conrad alludes to this being the universal timelessness of such savagery, stretching from primitive times to today and beyond: “The mind of a man is capable of everything because everything is in it, all the past as well as all the future.” There is a hypnotic quality to Conrad’s writing, which operates on several levels. These stories demand a second reading, and perhaps even a third to fully appreciate. They seem to linger in the mind.
    • 3/5
      When I picked it up in January, I got about half-way through Heart of Darkness and got nothing out of it. As I read, I could hardly tell what was going on.

      This may have been because I wasn't paying attention.

      Actually, that is exactly the reason. I was treating it like an assignment. When I picked up the book again, the second half of Heart of Darkness was far more interesting, and then The Secret Sharer was pretty cool too. I mean, the stories are a little odd, about somewhat odd characters. But once I finished The Secret Sharer, I went back and reread Heart of Darkness from the beginning and all in one go. That helped a lot.

      Interesting, mysterious, nice description. Worth reading, and at least I don't have to stare at it unread on my shelf, or regret owning it in the first place.

      However, what is with the sky and sea welded together "without a joint"(paraphrased)? I liked it well enough in Heart of Darkness, but then it showed up again in The Secret Sharer and really stood out, for that reason alone.
    • 4/5
      Been 15/20 years since I read this. Starts out slow IMO, and I was wondering if it wasn't going to be another horrible slog like Lord Jim was for me. like the steamer returning to civilization, it picks up speed pretty quickly.

      Despite constant mental flashbacks to the movie, I really like the story. Man goes native in the bush, and sets up his own empire. Quite a lot going on in the 3d chapter, and I would love to sit down and go through it slowly line by line and get the full gist of the story. I love the fact that he has banded together his own army and it battling over the fossil ivory of central Africa. Unfortunately,back to the shelf for HOD until next time.
    • 4/5
      An exploration of darkness, but in truly gorgeous prose. And there are a couple silly bits (I particularly enjoyed Marlow's comments about how his vanity caused him to hope that his cannibal employees found him more appetizing looking than his obese, sticky steamboat passengers.) which, given the general grimness of the story, are particularly welcome.
      *I am commenting only on Heart of Darkness, not The Secret Sharer, which I did not read.
    • 4/5
      The madness of Mr. Kurtz in his isolated camp deep in the dark, ominous jungle of the Congo stood as a stark warning against European colonial aspirations at the time the book was written, and the superb writing helps it to remain relevant today.
    • 4/5
      This is a great standard for classical English literature collections. Dark, descriptive, and lathed with the racial prejudices of the period of European colonial expansion, this tale provides a vivid narrative of the Belgian occupation of the heart of Africa.
    • 3/5
      These stories are two of those classics that I've heard about for years but never gotten around to reading. Now I finally have, and I can't say I've been missing too much. I began with Heart of Darkness, which is actually the second story in the volume, and it might have been better if I had started with The Secret Sharer, which is a bit more accessible if a little bland.

      I had anticipated that Heart of Darkness would be more action-packed, but as the writer of the introduction points out, this tale is a look into psychological issues, not driven so much by history or plot. To be honest, I found it boring. I imagine it was groundbreaking when it was released, but there have certainly been other (and probably better - The Poisonwood Bible comes to mind) novels that looked at similar issues since then. I read that the story was somewhat autobiographical, and I understand that Conrad actually made that trek up the Congo, but there were certain aspects that didn't ring true to me. They are small details compared to the themes in the story but the distracted me. For example, the narrator keeps talking about the silence surrounding the humans in Africa, but I cannot imagine jungle and river and tropics without imagining lots of NOISE - birds, insects, and larger animals. Could it really have been silent? In addition, I found myself questioning the narrator's assumption that the Africans on the trek with him were cannibals. Perhaps those locals were, but I fear this was a stereotype designed to make them more alien. Small things, as I said, but somehow important to me as a reader.

      There was much left unsaid in Heart of Darkness. The reader has to make assumptions about Kurtz and his actions, and I'm afraid I was in a bit of a muddle. Did he love the Africans and come to identify with them? Did he simply enjoy being idolized by them? Did he see them as human or less than human? What really was "the horror" he cried about at the end of his life? What were the events that led to the state in which Marlow found him? Difficult for me to say - and maybe that was the author's intention, or maybe I'm too far removed from that time and mindset to figure it out.

      The Secret Sharer was an easier read but less interesting. The narrator makes much of his feeling that Leggatt is his twin self, and I suppose that is because he identified with the stowaway, but I didn't really see the big deal. If he believed the man and felt it best to help him, then that's great. If he agonized over the propriety of his decision, there is little to indicate it in the text. Again, perhaps there is too much time and distance from the life he describes for me to be able to identify.

      I'm of course glad I have finally read these tales that have persisted for so long, and perhaps once I have spent more time mulling them over I will appreciate them more.
    • 4/5
      Conrad's Heart Of Darkness, while a very short novel, (it barely breaks the hundred-page mark) is so concentrated as to tax the reader from tearing through it. Less of a travelogue of one man's journey into the jungle to retrieve another, and more of an analysis of the title's black center that exists in all of us. Not exactly a beach book.
    • 5/5
      3/20
      Quite enjoyed this one - thought it would be much tougher than it was. The introduction was lovely (although I have a MUCH older version, so I didn't read Oates) - it got me in the right mindset.Starting with "The Secret Sharer" was also good, as it got me accustomed to Conrad's style and psychology - not that you can ever fully understand it! But in any case "Heart of Darkness" would have been a hit. It's...absolutely haunting. Conrad is brilliant in how much he lets us know about Kurtz - or how little - because it allows us to put our own interpretations on him. He's a fascinating character. The theme of nightmares is also quite prevelant - the idea that neither of the two sides of imperialism we see - Kurtz and the company - are good, but only two versions of nightmares, of which Marlowe must choose one. It's powerful precisely because there is no redemption to be found. The concept of the alien - of the alien continent, as it were - pervades the novel. It's hard to tell if colonialism and imperialism are dealt with fully - we only get one side of the coin (meaning that the criticism comes only from the white europeans, and africans are denied a voice and identity in the novel). However, that may be by design, through Conrad's dealing with alienation.
      As usual, very disjointed review.
    • 5/5
      I tried reading Heart of Darkness 3 times before I finally got more than 5 pages into it without giving up. You definitely need to be in the right head space to get through this dense dense story, but it's well worth it. Beautiful imagery and really gets into your brain for a while. I think I'll need to read it again soon.
    • 3/5
      The introduction is really interesting. I did not know Joseph Conrad...a great "English" writer was really Polish. His name is really Józef Teodor Konrad Korzeniowski. Wow, huh? That and he didn't really learn the English language until he was twenty. His books, well at least these two, have real moral and psychological undertones. I love that.

      Heart of Darkness
      Published in 1902, Heart of Darkness begins the story on a ship leaving London. Marlow, one of the English passengers on the ship tells a story of when he was a Captain of a boat in the Congo doing Ivory trading. He is given the task of going down the Congo River to retrieve a fellow ivory trader, Kurtz, who has quite the reputation in the region.

      While the writing is very very wordy (the introduction even notes that), the imagery is very strong. He depicts the horrible conditions of the slaves in the area. And when he finally does meet Kurtz, the absolute lack of humanity in him is just...well plain scary. And that's when it gets sort of into the psychological aspect of the story. I mean Kurtz is a horrible trader who will do anything to get more ivory. I mean the guy has heads on stakes around his place. Just as a warning. But Kurtz has presence. Just pure evil genius. And Marlow actually starts to admire him. Not admire what he does or did but just the genius of it all. It really confronts that idea of the ability of everyone to be or do evil. Kind of like in World War II...how do regular people end up doing horrific things? Even the title of the story, Heart of Darkness is a psychological twist. Africa used to be called the "Dark Continent" but it's really about the darkness of the human heart.

      The Secret Sharer
      This short story, published in 1910, was a bit more straight forward than Heart of Darkness but still pretty good. The story is about a newbie Captain of a ship. He really hasn't gotten to know his crew or his ship. While he on watch during the night, he finds a naked man hanging onto the ladder of his ship in the water. He takes the man on board, hides him in his cabin, and learns his story. The man is named Leggatt and is from the ship, Sephora, which is nearby. During a horrible storm, Leggatt, in a fit of rage, killed a fellow shipmate because Leggatt thought the shipmate was being lax in his duties. He escaped punishment by diving in the water, feigning drowning and hiding.

      So the Captain actually sides with this guy! He hides him, lies to his crew, and lies to the Sephora Captain. He even goes as far as to call this guy "his other self"...I mean he really identifies more with this murderer than with anyone else. Kind of crazy.

      Conclusion:

      I'll have to read more Joseph Conrad. I love the psychological/moral twist in these stories. They really make me ponder things long after I've read them. And I love that Joseph Conrad actually went to these places since he worked in the French and British Merchant Navies. It makes me wonder how much of his stories he took from real life...which is kind of scary.
    • 1/5
      Wow. Apocalypse Now was so much more riveting. I actually gave up on this one about 20 pages shy of the end. I think the crazy guy dies at the end. I hope the steamboat sinks on the way back down the river. Paragraph breaks are your friend, Joseph Conrad.
    • 5/5
      Heart of Darkness deals with Marlowe's commandant of the "Nellie", which is transporting ivory downriver on the Congo. The environment is dark and foreign. Marlowe is a civilized man amongst savagery. He contemplates society and the darkness that pervades his own country. He hears from the men who have found work in this strange land of an enlightened man--Kurtz--who turns out to be not at all what is expected. I won't ruin it for you.The Secret Sharer tells of an unamed Captain given a boat and crew of whom he is totally unfamiliar. During their journey the Captain secretly takes on a nude swimmer whom he finds in the water at night. He comes to understand the man's questionable past, yet he places himself in the man's place and becomes his aide. Both novellas are deemed to be autobiographical. Conrad's prose is able to capture our imaginations so that we share in his strange watery adventures. His musings are philosophical, entertaining, and amazingly apt.
    • 3/5
      I will admit that its possible I didn't get this book, but I thought there was a large buildup and then a small payoff. Other things about this book were good the writing style was great and the story is engaging but when you finally meet Kurtz you expect something more than he is.
    • 4/5
      Although they are never directly addressed, the wounds inflicted by Leopold's rape of the Congo are visible everywhere, and for that reason alone, it is worth reading. The whole journey into the darkness of the human soul, too, of course. Appropriate reading for anyone.
    • 4/5
      This intellectually stimulating novel follows a man named Marlow on his adventure up the Congo river and into the middle of Africa, or "Heart of Darkness". He is a steam boat captain for a British Ivory-trading corporation. His duty is to first repair his damaged ship, then travel up the river to bring back the infamous Mr. Kurtz. Kurtz is a mysterious but highly intelligent man who somehow brings in boatloads of Ivory for the company. Marlow must embark on his journey to find Kurtz, to see if he's still alive, and perhaps unravel some of his secrets.

      One of the main characters, Mr. Kurtz, has embodied the idea of a Utopian society. He is perfectly happy living in the jungle with no other people from the civilized world. He prefers to make friends with the natives and spend his time digging up fossilized ivory. He becomes enthralled with this savage lifestyle and longs to remain in the jungle and even die there. When Marlow tries to get Mr. Kurtz to leave the station, Mr. Kurtz dies on the inside. His Utopian, wild, native life has been ruined. He has been thrown back into the dystopian society of Europe. The "white" people have ruined the Utopian societies of the jungle. They bring greed and slavery into a world that did not know such things. A dystopian society is thrust upon the natives and Mr. Kurtz (who has practically become a native himself).

      This was a very interesting book and overall it was very intriguing. It was a very difficult book to read, however. The wording was complicated at times and often the narrator, Marlow, went off on rants that would continue for pages and pages. If the storyline had been uninterrupted by these rants, the book would have been a lot better. This is definitely not a book you want to read for relaxation purposes, it takes a lot of thinking! Perhaps someone a little older would enjoy it more than I did.
    • 5/5
      Conrad's engrossing examination of the nature of man, civilization and madness in the form of a dark adventure is also a damning examination of European colonialism.

      Full of exacting descriptions of unresolved feelings and experiences, the book worms its way into your immagination.

      A classic of 20th century lit. for very good reason
    • 5/5
      The Secret Sharer is certainly the better of these two stories (but perhaps that is simply because I find the maritime setting generally more appealing than the colonial Africa one), though Heart of Darkness is one of the most compelling tales of human darkness that I've ever come across. HoD reads like a psychological thriller with the intelligence and insight needed to back it up. Intense and trudging, this story from the most brilliant of novelists does not make light or easy reading but is well worth any effort the reader makes to comprehend the primal darkness of the soul.
    • 3/5
      To be completely honest, the rating is more like this:

      Heart of Darkness: * *
      The Secret Sharer: ****

      The Secret Sharer was really good. Relateable (if you don't take everything in a completely literal sense) and predictable, but good none the less. The ending wasn't quite what I expected (even after a friend spoiled it for me), but I can see why it is a favorite among high school English teachers. Conrad includes quite a bit of symbolism that teachers can use to attempt to get their students to see themselves in the pages. Whether the kids actually will or not, I can't say, but it's there if they look just beyond what's written on the page.

      As for Heart of Darkness, my main complaint was the narrator. He was excessively verbose, making it painfully easy for the reader to lose interest every few pages. On top of all that, he took forever to get to the main point of the story. Again, I can see how high school English teachers would like using something like this because it basically spells out the imagery and symbolism for you with very little effort however, if they have to make an abridged version of the Iliad and/or Odyssey for teenagers, there's no way they will have the patience to get through this in the time allotted for class. Heck, the only reason I finished it was that I refuse to let books defeat me by not finishing them once I've started them.

      Overall, given the choice, I'd only recommend The Secret Sharer. It is not worth the time or the effort, however minimal it may be, to finish Heart of Darkness.

    Book preview

    Heart of Darkness Thrift Study Edition - Joseph Conrad

    exams.

    Table of Contents

    Title Page

    Copyright Page

    Publisher’s Note

    Heart of Darkness

    II

    III

    Study Guide

    SECTION ONE - Introduction

    SECTION TWO - Heart of Darkness

    SECTION THREE - Heart of Darkness

    SECTION FOUR - Heart of Darkness

    SECTION FIVE - Bibliography

    DOVER THRIFT EDITIONS

    Table of Contents

    Title Page

    Copyright Page

    Publisher’s Note

    Heart of Darkness

    II

    III

    Study Guide

    SECTION ONE - Introduction

    SECTION TWO - Heart of Darkness

    SECTION THREE - Heart of Darkness

    SECTION FOUR - Heart of Darkness

    SECTION FIVE - Bibliography

    DOVER THRIFT EDITIONS

    Heart of Darkness

    THE NELLIE, A cruising yawl, swung to her anchor without a flutter of the sails, and was at rest. The flood had made, the wind was nearly calm, and being bound down the river, the only thing for it was to come to and wait for the turn of the tide.

    The sea-reach of the Thames stretched before us like the beginning of an interminable waterway In the offing the sea and the sky were welded together without a joint, and in the luminous space the tanned sails of the barges drifting up with the tide seemed to stand still in red clusters of canvas sharply peaked, with gleams of varnished sprits. A haze rested on the low shores that ran out to sea in vanishing flatness. The air was dark above Gravesend, and farther back still seemed condensed into a mournful gloom, brooding motionless over the biggest, and the greatest, town on earth.

    The Director of Companies was our captain and our host. We four affectionately watched his back as he stood in the bows looking to seaward. On the whole river there was nothing that looked half so nautical. He resembled a pilot, which to a seaman is trustworthiness personified. It was difficult to realize his work was not out there in the luminous estuary, but behind him, within the brooding gloom.

    Between us there was, as I have already said somewhere, the bond of the sea. Besides holding our hearts together through long periods of separation, it had the effect of making us tolerant of each other’s yarns—and even convictions. The lawyer—the best of old fellows—had, because of his many years and many virtues, the only cushion on deck, and was lying on the only rug. The accountant had brought out already a box of dominoes, and was toying architecturally with the bones. Marlow sat cross-legged right aft, leaning against the mizzenmast. He had sunken cheeks, a yellow complexion, a straight back, an ascetic aspect, and, with his arms dropped, the palms of hands outwards, resembled an idol. The director, satisfied the anchor had good hold, made his way aft and sat down amongst us. We exchanged a few words lazily. Afterwards there was silence on board the yacht. For some reason or other we did not begin that game of dominoes. We felt meditative, and fit for nothing but placid staring. The day was ending in a serenity of still and exquisite brilliance. The water shone pacifically; the sky, without a speck, was a benign immensity of unstained light; the very mist on the Essex marshes was like a gauzy and radiant fabric, hung from the wooded rises inland, and draping the low shores in diaphanous folds. Only the gloom to the west, brooding over the upper reaches, became more somber every minute, as if angered by the approach of the sun.

    And at last, in its curved and imperceptible fall, the sun sank low, and from glowing white changed to a dull red without rays and without heat, as if about to go out suddenly, stricken to death by the touch of that gloom brooding over a crowd of men.

    Forthwith a change came over the waters, and the serenity became less brilliant but more profound. The old river in its broad reach rested unruffled at the decline of day, after ages of good service done to the race that peopled its banks, spread out in the tranquil dignity of a waterway leading to the uttermost ends of the earth. We looked at the venerable stream not in the vivid flush of a short day that comes and departs forever, for a man who has, as the phrase goes, followed the sea with reverence and affection, than to evoke the great spirit of the past upon the lower reaches of the Thames. The tidal current runs to and fro in its unceasing service, crowded with memories of men and ships it had borne to the rest of home or to the battles of the sea. It had known and served all the men of whom the nation is proud, from Sir Francis Drake to Sir John Franklin, knights all, titled and untitled—the great knights-errant of the sea. It had borne all the ships whose names are like jewels flashing in the night of time, from the Golden Hind returning with her round flanks full of treasure, to be visited by the Queen’s Highness and thus pass out of the gigantic tale, to the Erebus and Terror, bound on other conquests—and that never returned. It had known the ships and the men. They had sailed from Deptford, from Greenwich, from Erith—the adventurers and the settlers; kings’ ships and the ships of men on ‘Change; captains, admirals, the dark interlopers of the Eastern trade, and the commissioned generals of East India fleets. Hunters for gold or pursuers of fame, they all had gone out on that stream, bearing the sword, and often the torch, messengers of the might within the land, bearers of a spark from the sacred fire. What greatness had not floated on the ebb of that river into the mystery of an unknown earth! . . . The dreams of men, the seed of commonwealths, the germs of empires.

    The sun set; the dusk fell on the stream, and lights began to appear along the shore. The Chapman lighthouse, a three-legged thing erect on a mud-flat, shone strongly. Lights of ships moved in the fairway—a great stir of lights going up and going down. And farther west on the upper reaches the place of the monstrous town was still marked ominously on the sky, a brooding gloom in sunshine, a lurid glare under the stars.

    And this also, said Marlow suddenly, has been one of the dark places of the earth.

    He was the only man of us who still followed the sea. The worst that could be said of him was that he did not represent his class. He was a seaman, but he was a wanderer, too, while most seamen lead, if one may so express it, a sedentary life. Their minds are of the stay-at-home order, and their home is always with them—the ship; and so is their country—the sea. One ship is very much like another, and the sea is always the same. In the immutability of their surroundings the foreign shores, the foreign faces, the changing immensity of life, glide past, veiled not by a sense of mystery but by a slightly disdainful ignorance; for there is nothing mysterious to a seaman unless it be the sea itself, which is the mistress of his existence and as inscrutable as destiny. For the rest, after his hours of work, a casual stroll or a casual spree on shore suffices to unfold for him knowing. The yarns of seamen have a direct simplicity, the whole meaning of which lies within the shell of a cracked nut. But Marlow was not typical (if his propensity to spin yarns be excepted), and to him the meaning of an episode was not inside like a kernel but outside, enveloping the tale which brought it out only as a glow brings out a haze, in the likeness of one of these misty halos that sometimes are made visible by the spectral illumination of moonshine.

    His remark did not seem at all surprising. It was just like Marlow. It was accepted in silence. No one took the trouble to grunt even; and presently he said, very slow:

    I was thinking of very old times, when the Romans first came here, nineteen hundred years ago—the other day. . . . Light came out of this river since—you say knights? Yes; but it is like a running blaze on a plain, like a flash of lightning in the clouds. We live in the flicker—may it last as long as the old earth keeps rolling! But darkness was here yesterday. Imagine the feelings of a commander of a fine—what d‘ye call ’em?—trireme in the Mediterranean, ordered suddenly to the north; run overland across the Gauls in a hurry; put in charge of one of these craft the legionaries—a wonderful lot of handy men they must have been, too—used to build, apparently by the hundred, in a month or two, if we may believe what we read. Imagine him here—the very end of the world, a sea the color of lead, a sky the color of smoke, a kind of ship about as rigid as a concertina—and going up this river with stores, or orders, or what you like. Sandbanks, marshes, forests, savages—precious little to eat fit for a civilized man, nothing but Thames water to drink. No Falernian wine here, no going ashore. Here and there a military camp lost in a wilderness, like a needle in a bundle of hay—cold, fog, tempests, disease, exile, and death—death skulking in the air, in the water, in the bush. They must have been dying like flies here. Oh, yes—he did it. Did it very well, too, no doubt, and without thinking much about it either, except afterwards to brag of what he had gone through in his time, perhaps. They were men enough to face the darkness. And perhaps he was cheered by keeping his eye on a chance of promotion to the fleet at Ravenna by and by, if he had good friends in Rome and survived the awful climate. Or think of a decent young citizen in a toga—perhaps too much dice, you know—coming out here in the train of some prefect, or tax-gatherer, or trader even, to mend his fortunes. Land in a swamp, march through the woods, and in some inland post feel the savagery, the utter savagery, had closed round him—all that mysterious life of the wilderness that stirs in the forest, in the jungles, in the hearts of wild men. There’s no initiation either into such mysteries. He has to live in the midst of the incomprehensible, which is also detestable. And it has a fascination, too, that goes to work upon him. The fascination of the abomination—you know, imagine the growing regrets, the longing to escape, the powerless disgust, the surrender, the hate.

    He paused.

    Mind, he began again, lifting one arm from the elbow, the palm of the hand outwards, so that, with his legs folded before him, he had the pose of a Buddha preaching in European clothes and without a lotus flower—Mind, none of us would feel exactly like this. What saves us is efficiency—the devotion to efficiency But these chaps were not much account, really. They were no colonists; their administration was merely a squeeze, and nothing more, I suspect. They were conquerors, and for that you want only brute force—nothing to boast of, when you have it, since your strength is just an accident arising from the weakness of others. They grabbed what they could get for the sake of what was to be got. It was just robbery with violence, aggravated murder on a great scale, and men going at it blind—as is very proper for those who tackle a darkness. The conquest of the earth, which mostly means the taking it away from those who have a different complexion or slightly flatter noses than ourselves, is not a pretty thing when you look into it too much. What redeems it is the idea only. An idea at the back of it; not a sentimental pretence but an idea; and an unselfish belief in the idea—something you can set up, and bow down before, and offer a sacrifice to....

    He broke off. Flames glided in the river, small green flames, red flames, white flames, pursuing, overtaking, joining, crossing each other—then separating slowly or hastily. The traffic of the great city went on in the deepening night upon the sleepless river. We looked on, waiting patiently—there was nothing else to do till the end of the flood; but it was only after a long silence, when he said, in a hesitating voice, I suppose you fellows remember I did once turn fresh-water sailor for a bit, that we knew we were fated, before the ebb began to run, to hear about one of Marlow’s inconclusive experiences.

    I don’t want to bother you much with what happened to me personally, he began, showing in this remark the weakness of many tellers of tales who seem so often unaware of what their audience would best like to hear; "yet to understand the effect of it on me you ought to know how I got out there, what I saw, how I went up that river to the place where I first met the poor chap. It was the farthest point of navigation and the culminating point of my experience. It seemed somehow to throw a kind of light on everything about me—and into my thoughts. It was somber enough, too—and pitiful—not extraordinary in any way—not very clear either. No, not very clear. And yet it seemed to throw a kind of light.

    "I had then, as you remember, just returned to London after a lot of or so, and I was loafing about, hindering you fellows in your work and invading your homes, just as though I had got a heavenly mission to civilize you. It was very fine for a time, but after a bit I did get tired of resting. Then I began to look for a ship—I should think the hardest work on earth. But the ships wouldn’t even look at me. And I got tired of that game, too.

    "Now when I was a little chap I had a passion for maps. I would look for hours at South America, or Africa, or Australia, and lose myself in all the glories of exploration. At that time there were many blank spaces on the earth, and when I saw one that looked particularly inviting on a map (but they all look that) I would put my finger on it and say, ‘When I grow up I will go there.’ The North Pole was one of these places, I remember. Well, I haven’t been there yet, and shall not try now. The glamor’s off. Other places were scattered about the Equator, and in every sort of latitude all over the two hemispheres. I have been in some of them, and . . . well, we won’t talk about that. But there was one yet—the biggest, the most blank, so to speak—that I had a hankering after.

    "True, by this time it was not a blank space any more. It had got filled since my boyhood with rivers and lakes and names. It had ceased to be a blank space of delightful mystery—a white patch for a boy to dream gloriously over. It had become a place of darkness. But there was in it one river especially, a mighty big river, that you could see on the map, resembling an immense snake uncoiled, with its head in the sea, its body at rest curving afar over a vast country, and its tail lost in the depths of the land. And as I looked at the map of it in a shop window, it fascinated me as a snake would a bird—a silly little bird. Then I remembered there was a big concern, a company for trade on that river. Dash it all! I thought to myself, they can’t trade without using some kind of craft on that lot of fresh water—steamboats! Why shouldn’t I try to get charge of one? I went on along Fleet Street, but could not shake off the idea. The snake had charmed me.

    "You understand it was a continental concern, that trading society; but I have a lot of relations living on the continent, because it’s cheap and not so nasty as it looks, they say.

    "I am sorry to own I began to worry them. This was already a fresh departure for me. I was not used to get things that way, you know. I always went my own road and on my own legs where I had a mind to go. I wouldn’t have believed it of myself; but, then—you see—I felt somehow I must get there by hook or by crook. So I worried them. The men said ‘My dear fellow,’ and did nothing. Then—would you believe it?—I tried the women. I, Charlie Marlow, set the women to work—to get a job. Heavens! Well, you see, the notion drove me. I had an aunt, a dear enthusiastic soul. you. It is a glorious idea. I know the wife of a very high personage in the administration, and also a man who has lots of influence with,’ etc., etc. She was determined to make no end of fuss to get me appointed skipper of a river steamboat, if such was my fancy.

    "I got my appointment—of course; and I got it very quick. It appears the company had received news that one of their captains had been killed in a scuffle with the natives. This was my chance, and it made me the more anxious to go. It was only months and months afterwards, when I made the attempt to recover what was left of the body, that I heard the

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