Heart of Darkness by Joseph Conrad

*contains spoilers*

In 1899, at a time when Victorian Britain was proud and vocal about its imperialist domination in many parts of the world, Joseph Conrad, born in Ukraine in 1857 as Józef Teodor Konrad Korzeniowski, brought down this not-quite-a-novel-but-a-bit-more-than-a-novella with a righteous smash, shattering the unfounded notions of British superiority with an earthquake that still rumbles and resonates under our feet today. It’ll disconcert any number of us budding writers to learn that English was only Conrad’s third language – his first and second being Polish and French respectively – so reading this particular text is an indictment on our own linguistic skills as well as our general lack of awareness about Britain’s negative impact on the world (take Brexit as a recent example of the nation’s current, overall naivety regarding international relations, trade and diplomacy).

As a Brit reading the text, it’s difficult not to look at oneself awkwardly in the mirror of the story, particularly when Conrad brings home to our more peaceful land the true horror of British imperialist rule and domination of African communities; “Well, if a lot of mysterious niggers armed with all kinds of fearful weapons suddenly took to travelling on the road between Deal and Gravesend, catching the yokels right and left to carry heavy loads for them, I fancy every farm and cottage thereabouts would get empty very soon.” Alienation of this breed has, in past examples of literature addressing social or political issues, come in very handy as a means of feeding the reader a point without outright accusation, but it’s difficult not to feel ashamed when it’s put in such obvious terms. It points the finger without wagging it, if you will, and asks gently, “what if what Britain was doing in the Congo (which Conrad saw for himself on his global voyages) was done to you outside your own homes in Britain?” The Golden Rule springs to mind – but to many Christians of the time this clarification was passed over a little too conveniently.

Indeed, some folks at the time, if asked on the street, would have countered that they don’t see African natives as anything more than animals, and so the Golden Rule doesn’t necessarily apply in their case. See how Conrad addresses this sickening proposition by stripping away the human essence from the African slaves in the text by making them no more than objects – and it makes for uncomfortable reading; “One, with his chin propped on his knees, stared at nothing, in an intolerable and appalling manner: his brother phantom rested its forehead, as if overcome with a great weariness…” The pathos of the situation is heightened by the reduction of a starving African from his human status, no doubt with family members out there somewhere, with emotions, feelings, dreams and loves, to an “it”, a “phantom”, a shadow rather than a being of agency or autonomy. As these shadows curl up to die in the shade of the trees of the jungle, the overworked joints of their limbs resemble knots as their skin wraps their brittle bones.

And there is so much more to this book. Usually at this point I’d cease my prattling and urge you to go out and buy a copy for yourself, but I’m compelled to discuss further. This is a book about storytelling, too: the tale is told by a nameless narrator aboard a ship on the Thames surrounding by his shipmates. Athe sun goes down, and as the crew ready for departure the next morning, a shipmate called Marlow breaks the eerie silence wafting over the still and yet foreboding evening and relates one of his previous journeys to Africa as he settles into his sleeping position for the night; “Do you see him? Do you see anything? It seems to me I am trying to tell you a dream – making a vain attempt, because no relation of a dream can convey the dream sensation…” So true: how valuable or valid is a story if our words are so limited in explaining what we feel or think? Our tale-teller himself goes on to ponders Marlow’s doubts that he can give his experience justice, and he concludes that Marlow is in fact right: no matter what or how we relate to each other, we can never reveal the truth of life’s “subtle and penetrating essence. It is impossible. We live, as we dream – alone…”

Later, as Marlow reveals his conversation with Kurtz, the man he is charged with seeking out to collect his ivory hoard acquired by very dubious means (“he had collected, bartered, swindled, or stolen more ivory than all the other agents together”), he feels words are not up to the task of portraying what passed between them as they burrowed into each other’s souls on first meeting; “I’ve been telling you what we said – repeating the phrases we pronounced – but what’s the good? They were common everyday words – the familiar, vague sounds exchanged on every waking day of life.” A new language is needed and desired to explain appropriately what Marlow experienced on facing Kurtz there in the darkness of the jungle alone – two civilised and educated men acting as gods and without a law to restrain them. A language maybe that resembles the primal, stomach-churning screams of the tribesmen?

Now is the time for me to stop. But read on for yourselves!