Cameron M.
10-12-2010, 01:18 PM
I've never posted here before, and I've never really let anyone read my writing before, so I'm little nervous. I hope you like it!
These are two fragments that I began as a Joseph Conrad pastiche (with a revisionists' view of colonialism), but it sort of took on a life of its own. I've thought about expanding it, and would love any feedback. I hope the racial comments aren't offensive, they're meant to be a commentary on the prevailing cultural view at the turn of the 20th century.
The sun sank low in the clear sky, creeping towards the ship-dotted horizon. This sight, as seen through the grime-covered window of a seaside pub, took on an aspect of gloom. Bright, undiluted sunlight briefly illuminated the dingy grey light of the tavern as the door opened. It closed again behind the group of sailors—acquaintances of mine— who had entered, returning the pub to its former state. I stood up, pint in hand, greeting them as they joined me in the corner.
I looked over the four haggard men as they took their seats. Two of them, Cameron and Matthews, had just gotten in from a long voyage from Africa. Cameron was a tall, lean man, with a mischievous glint in his eyes, and a neatly trimmed grey beard. He worked as a bookkeeper for years in Portsmouth, but had gone to Africa last year, intent on converting men, and bringing the continent some degree of civilization, which it was severely lacking. Matthews, in contrast, was shorter, a bit plumper than his companion, but also much more serious. He was a riverboat pilot, and his icy blue eyes demanded one’s respect. The third man I had not met before, and I would be amiss in not voicing my surprise at his appearance. He at first seemed to be bleeding or maimed, but upon closer examination, this was not the case. He was one of those West Indies or South Pacific fellows, who have a propensity for decorating their bodies most curiously--he was covered in primitive inkings and tattoos. His form resembled some sort of savage illuminated manuscript—the Book of Kells rendered in flesh. The fourth, and last, of my dining companions was Ripley—a seasoned, gaunt man whom I had met only once previously.
We spoke on matters of the Orient and of debauchery as we ate our suppers. We took turns exchanging both ribald and harrowing tales of exotic ports, and of women of varying repute. I glanced idly through the dirty window, looking at the streetlights outside. Men were going from streetlight to streetlight, lighting them. The small fires burned inside their enclosures, isolated and feeble attempts to illuminate the brooding blackness the approaching night would soon bring.
The conversation turned, as it must always do, to the subject of ships and sailing—the business of which being our primary commonality. Ripley, quiet until this point aside from the greeting offered at his arrival, leaned forward and spoke:
“And darkness, too—like love, or money—is something in which men put faith.” I stared at him, wondering at this cryptic remark, as our table sat in silence. The sounds of the crowded pub ebbed and flowed, the susurrus of the other patrons washing over us like the frothy tide.
I had met, as I stated before, this man once previously, in the offices of the company for which we had both found employ. Ripley was physically unimposing— not quite old, but it is not a stretch to imagine him being called so. He was lanky and hook-nosed, with short, grey-tinged black hair and a longish face. As we were introduced by a mutual acquaintance, I noted his small, feminine hands. It seemed that he belonged in a bookseller’s shop or the lecture halls of a divinity school, not on a ship bound for a distant port of call. When he spoke, though, his confident knowledge of business and his quiet dignity rose to the surface, rendering me a captive audience to his introspective charisma.
As he began to speak again, he set his drink down on the table, his stout standing in stark contrast to my lighter ale. I had no stomach for thick, bitter beers, their dark and complex flavors ill suited to my palette.
“Religion, as well, is something that demands men’s faith. I am not even quite sure what faith is, some of the time. I do not believe it is some ineffable belief in a grand deity dictating human understanding to mere mortals that constitutes “faith”, but rather, the stark, naked trust men put in things outside themselves. Men trust their wives to love only them, just as men trust banks to responsibly keep track of their finances. Sailors must also trust their captains and crewmates to do their jobs correctly; in fact, one may argue the entire idea of civilization is predicated on civilization’s faith in men acting only as they should.
“Faith is indeed a strange thing, certainly something all men have, whether they realize it or not. I have heard men say there is no God, and thus that they do not have faith, but I disagree—you see, their faith is simply in non-existence. And if non-existence is something in which men put faith, why not darkness?” Ripley’s expression changed as he brought up that enigmatic word again, his countenance growing solemn, funereal. His deeply set brown eyes blazed with intensity as the candlelight danced over his face.
“What I mean to say,” Ripley continued, “is simply that darkness governs the world much as love and money do. In truth, the more one ruminates on the matter, the more one sees that darkness does not simply influence the world alongside these things, but through them. I heard a story at a pub in Liverpool of a man who discovered his wife in bed with another man—he killed them both. The matter of religion is also not without darkness. As some men learn faith in loving and terrible deities, I have learned to have faith in this encompassing heart of darkness. In the past, I have wondered if God created darkness, or, indeed, if this darkness that permeates our waking life and our sleep created what men call God. If this is the case, then our lives are nothing more than a fever dream, set to the frantic, primal tattoo of our own heartbeats.
“A fellow I used to know named Marlow—you chaps may know him, as well, for he has been known in these parts—spoke to me once of this darkness, and its presence in all things. I don’t begin with this talk of darkness simply to add weight to my story, or to attempt to rationalize my own ominous thoughts. I say these things as a prologue, the beginning of a tale of my experiences. I have lain awake on many nights, sleepless, reviewing the events as they happened. I often think of it when I am alone, as I am sure you men consider ponderous occurrences in your lives during your contemplations or solitude. We are always alone in our own minds, after all.”
I looked up from the table as I listened, seeing the same confusion in my friends’ eyes, as I no doubt had in my own. Ripley had already drunk several pints of beer, and I wondered if this fragmented monologue was the start of an actual account of his life, or the iconoclastic ramblings of an otherwise intelligent man sinking deep into his cups.
“In any case, I hope my tale doesn’t digress too far into my own dark musings,” Ripley muttered, as if he could sense my and the others’ growing apprehension. He paused and took a sip of his beer, drinking the opaque, liquid blackness into him before beginning again.
2.
The next morning, I rose early. In reality, I had been unable to sleep, the events of Ripley’s story playing through my mind throughout the entire night, as ghastly visions and howling apparitions danced through my head. I had only been to French ports along the Ivory Coast in my travels, and thus had never experienced the jungles of darkest Africa, which Ripley so disturbingly described. I looked out the window of the inn above the tavern where I had booked a room, out over the streets leading to the harbor, still dark in the pre-dawn morning. I watched the morning take shape, the sun rising against a crimson sky. The day was going to be overcast, the clouds resembling tattered rags soaked in blood as the sun slowly made its ascent. I had a feeling of foreboding as I watched this gory tapestry take shape, as all good seamen should—‘red sky at morning’, and all of that. While I sat, looking out the window, a memory of my childhood floated to the surface of my mind.
When I was a young boy in Tottenham, my uncle was a merchant who lived above his shop, and every Saturday morning my father would take me with him to visit. I was always sent to the field near the shop, where his sons and various local boys would play football. I used to make my way through the back of his shop, and out into the alley behind it, before climbing over the short stone fence and running to join the match. One morning though, when I was 9 or so, I took a longer way back, exploring the area around my uncle’s shop.
I became lost, and, as all children of certain ages do that become separated from the things they know, became frightened. I wandered through narrow alleyways, trying to stay off the main streets, for fear I become even more lost in the bustle of the busy London morning. I somehow found my way to an alley behind a large building of which I knew not the purpose. I stood there, transfixed by this mysterious sight, as the door opened, and a dour, obese man came outside, lighting a pipe. He wore a dingy white apron that was indelibly stained from some grisly work, and carried some terrible, large apparatus, serrated and sharp on one side. It metal blade was a dull grey in the morning shade of the building, and had unidentifiable chunks lodged between its serrations. The man and I stared at each other in silence, his beady, dark eyes looking me over as I stood in awe of this queer figure. He finished smoking, tucked his pipe into a pocket of his soiled apron, and returned inside, the slamming door jarring me out of my trance.
What struck me most about the alley was the stench, which I could not identify. There was a large wooden box set against the wall, with a hinged lid. This is from where the foul odor seemed to be emanating, and I crept toward it, a chill going down my spine as I approached. I lifted the lid slowly, and my eyes grew wide. I saw what was inside, and let the lid drop with a bang. I doubled over at the stomach, vomiting all over the small alley’s muddy North London cobblestone.
The building was a butcher’s shop—though I knew it not at the time—and I had found its rubbish bin, full of animal offal—entrails and such. This dimly lit, malodorous alley smelled of death, of things that should not be outside a creature’s body but inexplicably have been rendered such. I wondered at the angel of death who worked inside, and was struck by a strong terror, which powered my breathless run back to my uncle’s shop.
The recollection of this memory was no doubt influenced by Ripley’s tale of savagery in Africa. His own unexpected discovery of a place of slaughter was much more unsettling, though; his recounted revelation of the chief purpose of the crude abattoir racked my soul, as his was no doubt racked by the actual experience. I shook my head, trying to clear these disruptive images from my mind as I dressed and left my room. I went down to the tavern, and ordered breakfast. I watched the inevitable rain begin to fall outside as my breakfast arrived—eggs, fish, and a hard crust of toasted bread. Accompanying the meal was not my usual tea with milk, but something I ordered on the spur of the moment—coffee, with no milk or sugar. I began to eat my breakfast, watching the raindrops stream down the window. As the rain fell harder, I sipped my coffee, its bitter darkness warming my soul.
These are two fragments that I began as a Joseph Conrad pastiche (with a revisionists' view of colonialism), but it sort of took on a life of its own. I've thought about expanding it, and would love any feedback. I hope the racial comments aren't offensive, they're meant to be a commentary on the prevailing cultural view at the turn of the 20th century.
The sun sank low in the clear sky, creeping towards the ship-dotted horizon. This sight, as seen through the grime-covered window of a seaside pub, took on an aspect of gloom. Bright, undiluted sunlight briefly illuminated the dingy grey light of the tavern as the door opened. It closed again behind the group of sailors—acquaintances of mine— who had entered, returning the pub to its former state. I stood up, pint in hand, greeting them as they joined me in the corner.
I looked over the four haggard men as they took their seats. Two of them, Cameron and Matthews, had just gotten in from a long voyage from Africa. Cameron was a tall, lean man, with a mischievous glint in his eyes, and a neatly trimmed grey beard. He worked as a bookkeeper for years in Portsmouth, but had gone to Africa last year, intent on converting men, and bringing the continent some degree of civilization, which it was severely lacking. Matthews, in contrast, was shorter, a bit plumper than his companion, but also much more serious. He was a riverboat pilot, and his icy blue eyes demanded one’s respect. The third man I had not met before, and I would be amiss in not voicing my surprise at his appearance. He at first seemed to be bleeding or maimed, but upon closer examination, this was not the case. He was one of those West Indies or South Pacific fellows, who have a propensity for decorating their bodies most curiously--he was covered in primitive inkings and tattoos. His form resembled some sort of savage illuminated manuscript—the Book of Kells rendered in flesh. The fourth, and last, of my dining companions was Ripley—a seasoned, gaunt man whom I had met only once previously.
We spoke on matters of the Orient and of debauchery as we ate our suppers. We took turns exchanging both ribald and harrowing tales of exotic ports, and of women of varying repute. I glanced idly through the dirty window, looking at the streetlights outside. Men were going from streetlight to streetlight, lighting them. The small fires burned inside their enclosures, isolated and feeble attempts to illuminate the brooding blackness the approaching night would soon bring.
The conversation turned, as it must always do, to the subject of ships and sailing—the business of which being our primary commonality. Ripley, quiet until this point aside from the greeting offered at his arrival, leaned forward and spoke:
“And darkness, too—like love, or money—is something in which men put faith.” I stared at him, wondering at this cryptic remark, as our table sat in silence. The sounds of the crowded pub ebbed and flowed, the susurrus of the other patrons washing over us like the frothy tide.
I had met, as I stated before, this man once previously, in the offices of the company for which we had both found employ. Ripley was physically unimposing— not quite old, but it is not a stretch to imagine him being called so. He was lanky and hook-nosed, with short, grey-tinged black hair and a longish face. As we were introduced by a mutual acquaintance, I noted his small, feminine hands. It seemed that he belonged in a bookseller’s shop or the lecture halls of a divinity school, not on a ship bound for a distant port of call. When he spoke, though, his confident knowledge of business and his quiet dignity rose to the surface, rendering me a captive audience to his introspective charisma.
As he began to speak again, he set his drink down on the table, his stout standing in stark contrast to my lighter ale. I had no stomach for thick, bitter beers, their dark and complex flavors ill suited to my palette.
“Religion, as well, is something that demands men’s faith. I am not even quite sure what faith is, some of the time. I do not believe it is some ineffable belief in a grand deity dictating human understanding to mere mortals that constitutes “faith”, but rather, the stark, naked trust men put in things outside themselves. Men trust their wives to love only them, just as men trust banks to responsibly keep track of their finances. Sailors must also trust their captains and crewmates to do their jobs correctly; in fact, one may argue the entire idea of civilization is predicated on civilization’s faith in men acting only as they should.
“Faith is indeed a strange thing, certainly something all men have, whether they realize it or not. I have heard men say there is no God, and thus that they do not have faith, but I disagree—you see, their faith is simply in non-existence. And if non-existence is something in which men put faith, why not darkness?” Ripley’s expression changed as he brought up that enigmatic word again, his countenance growing solemn, funereal. His deeply set brown eyes blazed with intensity as the candlelight danced over his face.
“What I mean to say,” Ripley continued, “is simply that darkness governs the world much as love and money do. In truth, the more one ruminates on the matter, the more one sees that darkness does not simply influence the world alongside these things, but through them. I heard a story at a pub in Liverpool of a man who discovered his wife in bed with another man—he killed them both. The matter of religion is also not without darkness. As some men learn faith in loving and terrible deities, I have learned to have faith in this encompassing heart of darkness. In the past, I have wondered if God created darkness, or, indeed, if this darkness that permeates our waking life and our sleep created what men call God. If this is the case, then our lives are nothing more than a fever dream, set to the frantic, primal tattoo of our own heartbeats.
“A fellow I used to know named Marlow—you chaps may know him, as well, for he has been known in these parts—spoke to me once of this darkness, and its presence in all things. I don’t begin with this talk of darkness simply to add weight to my story, or to attempt to rationalize my own ominous thoughts. I say these things as a prologue, the beginning of a tale of my experiences. I have lain awake on many nights, sleepless, reviewing the events as they happened. I often think of it when I am alone, as I am sure you men consider ponderous occurrences in your lives during your contemplations or solitude. We are always alone in our own minds, after all.”
I looked up from the table as I listened, seeing the same confusion in my friends’ eyes, as I no doubt had in my own. Ripley had already drunk several pints of beer, and I wondered if this fragmented monologue was the start of an actual account of his life, or the iconoclastic ramblings of an otherwise intelligent man sinking deep into his cups.
“In any case, I hope my tale doesn’t digress too far into my own dark musings,” Ripley muttered, as if he could sense my and the others’ growing apprehension. He paused and took a sip of his beer, drinking the opaque, liquid blackness into him before beginning again.
2.
The next morning, I rose early. In reality, I had been unable to sleep, the events of Ripley’s story playing through my mind throughout the entire night, as ghastly visions and howling apparitions danced through my head. I had only been to French ports along the Ivory Coast in my travels, and thus had never experienced the jungles of darkest Africa, which Ripley so disturbingly described. I looked out the window of the inn above the tavern where I had booked a room, out over the streets leading to the harbor, still dark in the pre-dawn morning. I watched the morning take shape, the sun rising against a crimson sky. The day was going to be overcast, the clouds resembling tattered rags soaked in blood as the sun slowly made its ascent. I had a feeling of foreboding as I watched this gory tapestry take shape, as all good seamen should—‘red sky at morning’, and all of that. While I sat, looking out the window, a memory of my childhood floated to the surface of my mind.
When I was a young boy in Tottenham, my uncle was a merchant who lived above his shop, and every Saturday morning my father would take me with him to visit. I was always sent to the field near the shop, where his sons and various local boys would play football. I used to make my way through the back of his shop, and out into the alley behind it, before climbing over the short stone fence and running to join the match. One morning though, when I was 9 or so, I took a longer way back, exploring the area around my uncle’s shop.
I became lost, and, as all children of certain ages do that become separated from the things they know, became frightened. I wandered through narrow alleyways, trying to stay off the main streets, for fear I become even more lost in the bustle of the busy London morning. I somehow found my way to an alley behind a large building of which I knew not the purpose. I stood there, transfixed by this mysterious sight, as the door opened, and a dour, obese man came outside, lighting a pipe. He wore a dingy white apron that was indelibly stained from some grisly work, and carried some terrible, large apparatus, serrated and sharp on one side. It metal blade was a dull grey in the morning shade of the building, and had unidentifiable chunks lodged between its serrations. The man and I stared at each other in silence, his beady, dark eyes looking me over as I stood in awe of this queer figure. He finished smoking, tucked his pipe into a pocket of his soiled apron, and returned inside, the slamming door jarring me out of my trance.
What struck me most about the alley was the stench, which I could not identify. There was a large wooden box set against the wall, with a hinged lid. This is from where the foul odor seemed to be emanating, and I crept toward it, a chill going down my spine as I approached. I lifted the lid slowly, and my eyes grew wide. I saw what was inside, and let the lid drop with a bang. I doubled over at the stomach, vomiting all over the small alley’s muddy North London cobblestone.
The building was a butcher’s shop—though I knew it not at the time—and I had found its rubbish bin, full of animal offal—entrails and such. This dimly lit, malodorous alley smelled of death, of things that should not be outside a creature’s body but inexplicably have been rendered such. I wondered at the angel of death who worked inside, and was struck by a strong terror, which powered my breathless run back to my uncle’s shop.
The recollection of this memory was no doubt influenced by Ripley’s tale of savagery in Africa. His own unexpected discovery of a place of slaughter was much more unsettling, though; his recounted revelation of the chief purpose of the crude abattoir racked my soul, as his was no doubt racked by the actual experience. I shook my head, trying to clear these disruptive images from my mind as I dressed and left my room. I went down to the tavern, and ordered breakfast. I watched the inevitable rain begin to fall outside as my breakfast arrived—eggs, fish, and a hard crust of toasted bread. Accompanying the meal was not my usual tea with milk, but something I ordered on the spur of the moment—coffee, with no milk or sugar. I began to eat my breakfast, watching the raindrops stream down the window. As the rain fell harder, I sipped my coffee, its bitter darkness warming my soul.