clandestine
10-25-2005, 10:12 PM
I’m reading “Heart of Darkness” by Joseph Conrad. I came across a slightly odd passage—I think the old man described is very likely some sort of allusion or mythological reference or archetype. Can anyone tell me if this description reminds them of another person or character they’ve come across? Whether from the bible, a mythological story, or perhaps the Inferno, or even in modern literature?
“…This was the foreman—a boiler-maker by trade—a good worker. He was a lank, bony, yellow-faced man, with big intense eyes. His aspect was worried, and his head was as bald as the palm of my hand; but his hair in falling seemed to have stuck to his chin, and had prospered in the new locality, for his beard hung down to his waist. He was a widower with six young children (he had left them in the care of his sister), and the passion of his life was pigeon-flying. He was an enthusiast and a connoisseur. He would rave about pigeons. At work, when he had to crawl in the mud under the bottom of the steamboat, he would tie up that beard of his in a kind of white serviette he had brought for the purpose. It had loops to go over his ears. In the evening he could be seen squatted on the bank rinsing that wrapper in the creek with great care.
“I slapped him on the back and said, “We shall have rivets [that we need to fix the steamboat]!” He scrambled to his feet exclaiming “No! Rivets!” as though he couldn’t believe his ears. Then in a low voice, “You…eh?” I don’t know why we behaved like lunatics. I put my finger to the side of my nose and nodded mysteriously. “Good for you!” he cried, snapped his fingers above his head, lifting one foot. I tried a jig. We capered on the iron deck.
If it rings a bell, please help me out here. I've been searching and am at wits end. I just can't find anything solid. Maybe I'm headed in the wrong direction... :brickwall
“…This was the foreman—a boiler-maker by trade—a good worker. He was a lank, bony, yellow-faced man, with big intense eyes. His aspect was worried, and his head was as bald as the palm of my hand; but his hair in falling seemed to have stuck to his chin, and had prospered in the new locality, for his beard hung down to his waist. He was a widower with six young children (he had left them in the care of his sister), and the passion of his life was pigeon-flying. He was an enthusiast and a connoisseur. He would rave about pigeons. At work, when he had to crawl in the mud under the bottom of the steamboat, he would tie up that beard of his in a kind of white serviette he had brought for the purpose. It had loops to go over his ears. In the evening he could be seen squatted on the bank rinsing that wrapper in the creek with great care.
“I slapped him on the back and said, “We shall have rivets [that we need to fix the steamboat]!” He scrambled to his feet exclaiming “No! Rivets!” as though he couldn’t believe his ears. Then in a low voice, “You…eh?” I don’t know why we behaved like lunatics. I put my finger to the side of my nose and nodded mysteriously. “Good for you!” he cried, snapped his fingers above his head, lifting one foot. I tried a jig. We capered on the iron deck.
If it rings a bell, please help me out here. I've been searching and am at wits end. I just can't find anything solid. Maybe I'm headed in the wrong direction... :brickwall