Jungles and Deserts: An Addendum to "Railing at Greatness"

Jungles and Deserts: An Addendum to "Railing at Greatness”

IMPORTANT NOTE: Reading the original thread or refreshing one's memory about the points outlined in that essay would help readers get a better sense of this "addendum."


Part One of Three
A 1909 epigram by Thomas Hardy reminisces about his days as a student:

A senseless school, where we must give
Our lives that we may learn to live!
A dolt is he who memorizes
Lessons that leave no time for prizes.

When Hardy later explained that the epigram was merely an “amusing instance of early cynicism,” he must not have known how uncannily his ironic little epigram predicted the state of a nation’s educational system one hundred years later. In the twenty-first century, works of distinguished artistry and excellence are being cast aside in favor of pragmatic “skills,” quantitative, collectible data, and efficiently “scannable” test “answers” instead of “essay questions” requiring thoughtful effort. The former definition of “literacy” as a quality of an educated person has faded into a much simpler one: merely the basic ability to read. In today’s schools “learning how to live” increasingly means how to make a living rather than providing models which enable us to begin understanding -- and ultimately cherishing- -life. No longer is there any time for these “prizes.”

Not long ago I read a newspaper editorial ( in print, believe it not) lamenting the fact that the quantity and quality of literature has been steadily deteriorating in the curricula of many U.S. school systems. One stark reason for this the fact that several government mandates require testing of student competency in reading and math in order to assure "accountability." Thus, classroom reading lessons have been directed to a possible positive outcome; every assignment is grist for the mill of the standardized exams, "teaching for the test" rather than for instilling in students an appreciation for and a love of literature.

Once again, educators are forcing literature to "earn its keep" by making it serve utilitarian ends. There is yet another bread-and-butter issue diverting literature from its essential excellence and artistry to a subservient role, using selected works as "examples"–not as "moral lessons" which educators mistakenly attempted in the past-- but as "teachable moments" by which students can be directed toward eventually acquiring earning skills. Thus, an English (or "language arts") curriculum which at once time might have featured several short stories now will only offer a limited number of selections, the time supposedly better spent on non-fiction passages about a work place or a job skill. A bonus comes attached to this prescription: a linear, non-ambiguous piece of non-fiction can be easily converted into exercises or questions that conceivably may appear on the "test." Certainly, no curriculum planner would think of bothering with any work that is just "too difficult" to comprehend upon a cursory reading; instead educator administrators would give the nod to works that are safe, comfortable, quickly digestible, non-controversial, and bland.

One doesn't have to be a futurist to realize that if this overly pragmatic attitude toward literature continues, too many American youths will grow up ignorant about the great works of civilization. Technological advances such as the Kindle aside, the world of literature as we know it might one day come to end. If it survives at all, it will be relegated to a kind of virtual museum, a curiosity rather than a significant aspect of human consciousness. That sounds dire, but it's difficult to ignore the trends, especially the models initiated and perpetuated in American schools.

In both his original Harper's article and his recent comment here, Vince Passaro cautions us against regarding "political correctness" as the root of the problem. Even so, in education's slightly neurotic "culture" --the post-Enron term for a work environment--any work of literature with the slightest tinge of controversy would never be considered as classroom fodder.

But just for the sake of argument, let's imagine a hypothetical teacher imbued with more bravado than a concern about career security who would--perhaps as a subversive sortie-- attempt to introduce his class to Vachel Lindsay's "The Congo." (Forget for a moment the question why a school district would hire for its faculty such a injudicious buffoon in the first place.) Yet imagine the repercussions arising from Lindsay’s's explosive opening line: "Fat black bucks in a wine-barrel room": the school board would run the teacher out of town on a rail, frantically wrought notes of apology would be quickly photocopied and sent home to parents, politicians would denounce the troublemaker on the local evening news.

The poem itself is rife with racial stereotypes, lurid descriptions, and vulgar characterizations. Apart from a brief image depicting King Leopold being burned and tortured in hell for his oppression and crimes against the indigenous people of the Congo region, nearly everything about Lindsay's piece is on its surface thoroughly repugnant--shocking the sensibilities of not only readers of 2012 but even--perhaps especially-- to those of 1914, the year in which the poem was written.

Why then would Lindsay stoop to create such an offensive tract? The reading public at the time consisted of upper-class, fashionable Caucasians who had only begun to emerge into the twentieth century; however, the old ways of superiority, bigotry, and hypocrisy were slow to take their leave. Not only that, along with the Victorian fondness for lace-smothered fastidiousness and "gingerbread house filigrees, many people had become curious about things that seemed odd, exotic, dangerous, and strange. Incidentally, there is a bit of incongruity in the fact that Arthur Conan Doyle, creator of the hugely popular literary detective whose methods originated in deductive reasoning, maintained an active fascination with the occult.

While it might be a fallacy to say that Lindsay was writing directly for such an audience, he was a product of his times. Added to that was his delight in the role of showman, or, as the editors of the Norton Anthology of Modern Poetry relate, Lindsay promoted a mind-set he dubbed the "Higher Vaudeville Imagination," arguing that "America needs the flamboyant to have her soul." As a result, "his poems often embrace questionable materials." The theme embedded in "The Congo" is not an argument for the prevailing colonialism of the status quo but rather an illustration of "raw superstition."

What I gather then, is that the depiction --arguably a celebration!-- of primitive people, or- as one of his subtitles rather rawly puts it --"their basic savagery." Still, the poem is not at all an accurate historical document nor an earnest sociological treatise; perhaps thinking it so provokes the initial outrage among contemporary readers. Yet, what "The Congo" confronts its readers with is not necessarily a region of the so-called "Dark Continent" as it actually exists, but as a talking picture of the place as it exists in the imagination. The poem and the ancillary parts of the work --such as stage directions along the margins of the text and the musical sound effects-- underscore the intended effect. Lindsay's fond wish was to restore poetry back to its early origins as "primitive singing." Thus "The Congo" is rich in rhythms and repetition, drumbeats, musical lines, such as the refrain "Boomlay,boomlay, boomlay, BOOM." Counterpointing the condescending depiction of the natives is repeated line (in all caps): “THEN I SAW THE CONGO, CREEPING THROUGH THE BLACK, CUTTING THROUGH THE FOREST WITH A GOLDEN TRACK.” This homage to the mystical power of the Congo River is the strongest image in the poem. Because of his insistent attention toward music in his poems, the Norton editors tell us that Lindsay paved the way for jazz-inflected poetry to enter the American literary landscape, influencing such later poets as --are you ready for this?--Langston Hughes. How’s that for irony?

Part Two of Three

In “A Flapping of Scolds,” the original Harper’s article to which “Railing at Greatness” thread refers, Vince Passaro reminds us that: “What we despise about literature, and what exhausts us about modern literature in particular, is its irony, its acknowledgment that in most cases the beautiful process of creation is tinged with something slightly immoral, something exploitative of intimacies and experience, rude, vain, self-justifying, disloyal, unrestrained.”

Some readers of modern works, such as American students inculcated with the value of authenticity, as well as critics who consider writers and their works as targets , often fail to recognize the subtleties of nuance and irony. Both of those qualities mark the works of Joseph Conrad (1857-1924) and T. S. Eliot (1888-1965), the two modern writers who have been maligned by certain critics, whom Passaro rebuts in Harper’s.

Without studying the novella as closely as it demands, a casual reader of Conrad’s Heart of Darkness might find plenty of offensive fodder to justify his or her resentment. Upon closer analysis, the reader might come to realize that there are complex, often contradictory, tensions beneath the surface; this novel demands, as the cliché goes– a reading “between the lines.” For all the disagreeable epithets describing the natives, there are just as many ironic passages in Heart of Darkness to undermine the apparent racial condescension and promotion of the corrupt interests of the colonialists.

For instance, I found at least three separate instances of ironic subversion of the pro-colonial position all within three pages of Heart of Darkness (pp. 68-70 of the Signet Classic Edition, reprinted 2008.) Even before he begins his fateful river journey, Marlow describes his sight of a man o’ war off the coast, where he finds it “incomprehensible” that the warship would “fire at the continent,” essentially attacking nothing or no one at all:

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“–and nothing happened. Nothing could happen. There was a touch of insanity in the proceeding, a sense of lugubrious drollery on board assuring me earnestly there was a camp of natives–he called them enemies!–hidden out of sight somewhere.”

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Just one short phrase packed with ironic paradox–“lugubrious drollery”– is a powerful hint of Marlow’s conflicted opinions about the ridiculous and ineffectual lengths to which the military will go to prop up and maintain the colonial system operated by white Europeans in search of wealth–no matter how laughably ineffectual the attempt. But perhaps more insightful is the judicial placement of a mere bit of punctuation: the exclamation point after the word “enemies.”

Just a few paragraphs later Marlow has a brief conversation with the young Swedish captain of a “little sea-going steamer.” The Swede “tossed his head contemptuously toward the shore” while tossing off a sarcastic remark: “ ‘fine lot these government chaps–are they not?’ he went on, speaking English with great precision and considerable bitterness. ‘It is funny what some people will do for a few francs a month.’ “ When Marlow asks him what happens to this kind of person when he goes “upcountry,” the captain tells him that just “the other day” he had discovered a man, a fellow Swede, who had hung himself on the road. Visibly shocked, Marlow asks why, to which the captain replies “Who knows? The sun too much for him, or the country perhaps.” That Conrad thinks to include these seemingly off-hand but significant remarks at this point in Marlow’s own narrative reveals a more complex aspect to his character and a deeper spirit than that which merely scratches Marlow’s superficial experiences in his thirst for adventure.


Perhaps the most revealing contraindication of Marlow’s ostensibly superior attitude toward the native population is a passage that is often cited as evidence as a tiny inkling of compassion, if not an oblique recognition of sharing a common humanity. If nothing else the sight of the suffering makes him think twice about the legitimacy of the ukase imposed by white Europeans. Of course this is a reference to the famous passage in which Marlow sees a sestet of natives chained together as prisoners:
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I]“They walked erect and slow, balancing small baskets full of earth on their heads, and the clink kept time with their footsteps. Black rags were wound round their loins, and the short ends waggled to and fro like tails. I could see every rib, the joints of their limbs were like knots in a rope; each had an iron collar on his neck, and all were connected together with a chain whose bights swung between them, rhythmically clinking. Another report from the cliff made me think suddenly of that ship of war I had seen firing into a continent. It was the same kind of ominous voice but these men could by no means of the imagination be called enemies. They were called criminals, and the outraged law, like the bursting shells, had come to them an insoluble mystery from the sea.”[/I]

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By witnessing the suffering of the prisoners, perhaps there is a sign of softening within Marlow’s hard exterior. He wants nothing more than to erase the horrid scene of the dying natives out of his mind: “My idea was to let that chain-gang get out of my sight before I climbed the hill. You know I am not particularly tender; I’ve had to strike and to fend off. I’ve had to resist and to attack sometimes–that’s the only way of resisting-without counting the exact cost, according to the demands of such sort of life as I had blundered into.” Marlow immediately follows this with a brief discourse on the nature of evil:

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“I’ve seen the devil of violence, and the devil of greed, and the devil of hot desire; but, by all the stars! these were strong, lusty, red-eyed devils, that swayed and drove men–men I tell you. . . “ This is followed by a premonition foreshadowing Marlow’s dread upon eventually discovering kind of man Kurtz may be: “I would be acquainted with a flabby, pretending, weak-eyed devil of a rapacious and pitiless folly. How insidious he could be, too, I was only to find out several months later and a thousand miles farther.”

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One of the complexities of Heart of Darkness is its ironic and ambiguous relationship between Marlow and the mysterious Kurtz–does Marlow admire or deplore this “remarkable man”–or is there a little of both? Complicating matters even more strongly is the detached and elusive manner of conveying the narrative. Vince Passaro’s insightful afterword to the Signet edition explains the multi-layered set-up. While waiting for the tide to turn onboard a cruise vessel on the Thames in the “sepulchral city,” a small group passes the time by listening to one of their number tell of his experiences in a forbidding land. As Passaro reminds us,

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“[t]he reader is addressed by an unnamed narrator, who sets up the situation before Marlow starts to speak. Everything that Marlow will say will come to us through this narrator whose name we never learn.”

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Viewing Kurtz --as depicted by Marlow–is catching a refracted glimpse through a prism. The result, as Passaro states, is

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“a three-layered narrative structure that goes from Marlow, to his companion, to us. But is this really Marlow’s story? . . .This is Marlow’s story of hearing a story.”

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Even Conrad himself was aware of the intricate nature of his structure, and Marlow speaks for him. For all of his sardonic irony, the sea-going storyteller confesses how much he deplores deviating from the straightforward, unfiltered truth:

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“You know I hate, detest, and can’t bear a lie, not because I am straighter than the rest of us, but simply because it appalls me. There is a taint of death, a flavour of mortality in lies–-which is exactly what I hate and detest about the world–what I want to forget. It makes me miserable and sick, like biting something rotten would do.”

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Yet when the world around him is “rotten” sometimes the only thing to do is sift it through a glass darkly, tell a kind of “lie”–fiction- in order to comprehend more fully the truth. (“Tell the truth,” writes Emily Dickinson, “but tell it slant.”)

Later in the same paragraph, Marlow admits that in an earlier conversation he had engaged in “pretence”:

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“This is simply because I had a notion it would somehow be of help to that Kurtz whom at the time I did not see–you understand. He was just a word for me. I did not see the man in the name any more than you do. Do you see him? Do you see the story?
Do you see anything?”

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It is possible to interpret this as a direct admonition to the reader against a facile acceptance of the literal story; Marlow --and his creator-- seem to be urging us to take nothing in the novella on face value.

The presentation of a story that is three-times removed from its primary fictional focus through a self-proclaimed unreliable narrator is only one aspect of the novella’s intriguing complexity. There are other issues brought up by contemporary readers, whipped into a frenzy by reactive critics whom Passaro’s 1997 Harper’s article confronts and disarms. In the preface to the Signet edition of Heart of Darkness, Joyce Carol Oates –a scholar and prolific writer whose name appears in print so often that one wouldn’t be surprised one day to find a published collection of her grocery lists–recounts the aspects within Heart of Darkness which spark outrage among readers who perceive offensive elements. “In recent years Joseph Conrad’s . . .ideas of gender, race, class and hegemony have been severely criticized. The assumptions of Caucasian male privilege are no longer taken for granted.” Therefore, Oates explains, “the occasionally dogmatic and even derisive nature” of some of Conrad’s descriptions may strike” a discordant note” among readers outside the category of his earliest white male readers.

Another point which may have escaped the reader’s notice is Passaro’s observation that nearly every conversation which Marlow relates to his London companions had been spoken in French, which Marlow has translated into English for his friends. It is only very late in the narrative that English is the actual, original language. Marlow makes a point of expressing his relief that he has finally found a fellow English speaker, Kurtz. He tells us that every time he begins to remember Kurtz the first thing that comes to mind is “the Voice!’


Although Conrad is a moralist for whom writing fiction is a “vocation akin to the priesthood,” he “painfully reveals himself,” Oates says, as “an unquestioning heir of centuries of Caucasian bigotry.” Still, she argues that “Marlow, for all his condescension, represents a degree of humanity not found in the other Caucasian Europeans who are intent from wresting from black Africa all that they can get.” Oates reminds us that Marlow's “sharp cinematic eye” is effective in that it “brings alive for us those suffering black men, whose plight is meant to move the hearts of Conrad’s educated, well-to-do readers.”

Jungles and Deserts- An Addendum to “Railing at Greatness”

Part Three of three

Startling connections unite Conrad and his contemporary T.S. Eliot. Both men were expatriates. Having been born in the Ukraine, Conrad witnessed cruelty first hand when his father spoke out against the Russian rulers of his country, resulting in the family’s exile and indirectly causing the deaths of both parents while Conrad was still a child. Conrad spent his early life at sea, eventually becoming a British subject in 1886. Born and educated in the United States, Eliot made his permanent move in 1914, after Ezra Pound had convinced him that England would provide an atmosphere more conducive to a literary vocation rather than America could.

Another thing both men hold in common is their literary genius, but their reputations have not always commanded the respect they deserve. Passaro’s Harper’s article links the two men because over the last couple of decades both have been unfairly vilified by critics who have been, to use Passaro ‘s succinct phrase, “skinned like a rabbit.” Both the novelist and poet have been accused of bigotry: Conrad for his alleged racial and gender condescension, Eliot charged with perceived anti-Semitism. On a superficial level, the charges against them seem not completely without basis, yet --since their work has often been misinterpreted and misunderstood-- both cases can be countered with evidence to the contrary.

There are several other similarities as well, in their choice of symbols to depict the basic corruption of humankind. In Conrad’s case images of an untamed jungle, rotting and decayed run all the way through Heart of Darkness. We find the flip side of this excess in the sparseness of deserts, nature drying up in numerous Eliot poems, notably “The Waste Land” and “The Hollow Men.” Indeed, the epigraph to the latter poem alludes to Heart of Darkness: “Mistah Kurtz–he dead.”

Yet there is an even deeper bond between the two writers in that their respective artistic visions regard mankind as basically flawed and human nature as so profoundly imperfect that it can not be redeemed in its earthly form. In this way, both Eliot and Conrad are “moralists.” Although Oates’s foreword states that Heart of Darkness suggests “a pessimism so deeply entrenched in Conrad’s work as to be identified with a self-serving political conservatism that conveniently renders any form of activism, even protest, ineffective. For if all men harbor darkness in their hearts, why try to save them? Why even pity them?”

But one can argue that the kind of “conservatism” shared by Conrad and Eliot is not of the political kind, but rather spiritual. It does not seem that either man would prefer that civilization return to an impoverished past rife with worse manifestations of blatant darkness and stark brutality. Nor does it appear that Conrad and Eliot would actively block the enlightenment opening the door for the inchoate social reforms originating in the early twentieth century. Even the Church, always known for its traditionalism and glacially-slow acceptance of social change, championed social progress with the papal encyclical Rerum Novae. In this decree and in his other teachings, Leo XIII condemned the avarice associated with the overweening quest for wealth, warned against the abuses of rampant capitalism, and strongly championed justice for workers. One can only assume that Eliot, a devout Christian to his very last breath, was onboard with the pope on these issues. For while spiritual conservatives believe that man himself may never achieve perfection, their philosophy is not necessarily antithetical to ameliorating the conditions surrounding man’s life.

As we learned back when schools still dared to allow Donne into the classroom, “No man is an island.” There is something akin to that idea in Heart of Darkness, with Marlow’s empathy for the suffering natives, albeit brief. But deeper than this is the undeniable “darkness” –the essential pessimism on the nature of man, essentially incapable of redemption, at least not by himself alone.

Inescapably, the darkness always looms. Marlow senses tension in his conversation with the bricklaying manager who pumps Marlow for information about Europe, evasively letting on virtually nothing useful about Kurtz attempting to change the subject by expounding about the relatively carefree of the hippos living in the ominous waters of the river. “ ‘That animal has a charmed life,’ he said; but you can only say that of brutes in this country. No man–you apprehend me?–no man here bears a charmed life.’ There are hints in this conversation, though, along with conversations with the station manager, as well as snippets of information which Marlow overhears, that enable Marlow to stitch together a picture of this Kurtz. Marlow picks up the sense that the other managers and agents, who describe Kurtz as “prodigious” and a genius,” are concealing a festering resentment toward the mysterious man up river, for he seems destined toward a coveted promotion in the company. The underlying reason for this, of course, is Kurtz’s ability to bring in large quantities of highly-profitable ivory–which is, after all, the raison d’etre for the Europeans occupying Africa to begin with. There are also hints that Kurtz’s methods of obtaining the valuable commodity are unorthodox, if not morally questionable. Later, when the boat passes an apparent independent poacher –an “intruder” on the river bank–possibly posing a threat, Marlow says, “I observed with assumed innocence that no man was safe from trouble in this world.”

When Marlow finally arrives at the Inner Station far up river and deep in the thick of the jungle, what he sees there visibly shocks him. Though Marlow tells his friends that he never has stopped admiring this “remarkable man” the reader has to wonder if this is completely true. Moreover, Marlow makes a diagnosis of Kurtz that parallels but is completely separate from the jungle disease from which he is dying, “his soul was mad. . .I saw the inconceivable mystery of soul that knew no restraint, no faith and no fear yet struggling blindly with itself.”

The unanswered question, of course, is what exactly causes of Kurtz’s madness. Was it the lack of civilization which the jungle with its perils, its insufferable climate, and overgrown
excess, symbolized by Marlow’s frequent references to the stench of rotting hippo meat? Hass greed – his own personal quest for weath as well as that of his capitalist employers-- and –paved the way for overreaching power and cruelty? Or is Conrad indirectly telling us that insanity is an inevitable symptom of the inevitable found not just in Kurtz but in every man who has ever walked the earth?

This, Conrad, is the ultimate human condition, man’s fate. “Destiny” Marlow reveals “My destiny. Droll thing life is–that mysterious arrangement of merciless logic for a futile purpose. The most you can hope from it is some knowledge of yourself–that comes too late–a crop of inextinguishable regrets.”

Despite the desolation, deprivation, and ever-present danger, there is a lifeline, no matter how slender, toward a saving grace: human nature may be flawed, but perhaps what keeps man from utter despair is the very fact that he is human, with which, in Terence’s famous axiom, “ nothing is alien.” Indeed, a seemingly intractable moralist such as Eliot recognizes this fact. In his essay on Baudelaire, Eliot states without apology: “So far as we do evil or good, we are human, and it is better in a paradoxical way to do evil than to do nothing; at least we exist.”

Amid the mysterious evil of the jungle and the desperate desolation of a waste land, Conrad and Eliot show man at his worst. It can be argued that both writers project the other side of the equation a balancing counterpart that is profoundly good rather than irredeemably evil. In Eliot’s poetry the implications are explicit in that man can find salvation from despair through the intervention of divine grace. In Conrad such a projection , if it exists , can only be inferred. Still, a glimmer of a slightly less pessimistic view of man can be gleaned from the concluding scene of Marlow’s narrative. This passage in which Marlow visits Kurtz’s mourning girlfriend is the scene which Oates cites as an example of Conrad’s misogyny, in that women are treated condescendingly, like children, in that they in every way the weaker
sex. Marlow, the man who thoroughly detests lying, assures her that Kurtz died with her name on her lips rather than his actual dying words–“The horror! The horror!” Rather than telling the woman the truth, he decides to spare her further grief. Readers can construe this scene as a revelation that Marlow is capable of performing an act of kindness; beneath his gruff exterior and rock-hard conviction of man’s essential corruption, he has a heart. In any event, only a man who has looked evil squarely in the face can know the meaning of redemption, eminently achievable through understanding and forgiveness.

That pair of concepts might well be invoked not only by readers whose blood rises at the prospect of attacking literary artists and their excellent works but also by those of us inclined to direct our disdain toward vituperative critics, reluctant students, and bureaucratic educators. Both factions might somehow come to the realization that understanding and forgiveness can travel a long way, a distance much farther up the river than mere righteous indignation could ever hope to go.

Thank you Aunty. You have given me something to read & get my teeth into on my day off tomorrow. (Appropriately a camp in a jungle location!)

Best regards

M.

I'm a bit confused. Or perhaps saying I'm not quite satisfied would be more accurate. You delineate one issue - that schools esteem literature unpragmatic and therefore neglect it - then almost immediately cite Passaro blaming not perceived uselessness but, rather, political correctness for this neglect. Which of the two is it? Are the two connected? How? Is literature's "uselessness" simply a pretext? Amid all the examples given to redeem Eliot and Conrad, I can't help but feel that you've forgotten to include (edit: or have at least underemphasized) some of the fundamental inferences which the reader needs to fully (and closely) follow your underlying arguments.

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Originally Posted by Cunninglinguist

I'm a bit confused. Or perhaps saying I'm not quite satisfied would be more accurate. You delineate one issue - that schools esteem literature unpragmatic and therefore neglect it - then almost immediately cite Passaro blaming not perceived uselessness but, rather, political correctness for this neglect. Which of the two is it? Are the two connected? How? Is literature's "uselessness" simply a pretext? Amid all the examples given to redeem Eliot and Conrad, I can't help but feel that you've forgotten to include (edit: or have at least underemphasized) some of the fundamental inferences which the reader needs to fully (and closely) follow your underlying arguments.

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The current thread is an "addendum" to a previous thread, "Railing at Greatness." Perhaps the issues which you bring up in this reply will be resolved upon reading, re-reading, or refreshing your memory concerning the original essay.

Incidentally, in his original Harper's article Passaro strongly stresses that this deep-seated resentment toward writers of excellence (e. g. Conrad and Eliot) is much more deep-seated than merely a matter of "political correctness." Passaro reiterates this in his reply on the "Railing at Greatness" thread.

Dear Aunty

Kindly excuse my faltering and perhaps incoherent steps in reviewing your three part thread on “Jungles and Deserts,” as I had not the foresight to print off and carry back to camp, it’s parental predecessor “Railing at Greatness.”

The crux of your argument, as I understand it is the unbalanced materialistic channeling of a US educational system that leaves its society, increasingly devoid of an appreciation of English literature and that fails to inculcate an ability for independent thinking. Along with this goes an inability to appreciate moral/spiritual values, that some, left carrying the flame take for granted.

I’ve got news for you; it’s not just in the States, although really I’m in no position to comment on that side of the pond. I was born in London town in 1943, when, I was reliably informed, a certain Austrian housepainter was dropping bombs on us. However auspicious that beginning, I had a mother, aunts and a Prime Minister that fed my love of books, the written word and the resonance of the English language. Not that they, (apart from Winston), were highly educated in the conventional sense themselves, but there was this fundamental belief in giving me all and everything I wanted to read.

Also the post war English educational system was comprehensive in its range of subjects, such that you did get a good grounding in: English, one foreign language, Chemistry, Physics, History, Math’s, & Geography, with a good dose of spartan PT thrown in. Even up to, and including, university, you specialized in certain subjects, but were forced to also choose and read from an alternate selection of seemingly unrelated other matter.

Today? I’m in two minds. Standards have dropped dramatically, but is it the educational system or the intellectual sloth induced by modern technology?

I think you are being overly pessimistic regards the future. There will always be a core of devotees; almost a singular, bonded cult of those prepared to question everything, to read widely, to experiment and to develop their own styles of writing at variance with commercial demand. When the Roman Empire faded out, the next period was referred to, in British history at least, as “The Dark Ages.” But were they? From whence came the incredible fruits of evolving English writing that transformed the language and the heritage?

Conrad and Elliot, as you rightly note, are not to be taken at face value and false assumptions made as to their writing and implicit moral standards. The complexity of man never ceases to wrong foot me; that and throwing in the variant of relative freedom of choice. You can walk on the other side, and many do, suppressing any desire for exploring the frontiers of thinking, but then I’ve witnessed some first rate, ragged-arsed, illiterate sons of *****es that occasionally, just occasionally, cross the line into the unknown. That gives me hope.

Thanks, Manichaean for ploughing through this lengthy essay. Since yours fooly put in an inordinate time and effort into the thing, I'm gratified that you took the time and trouble to give it go.

To recap the mother essay, "Railing at Greatness"-- That long thread begin to swirl a little over a year ago. It took as its inspiration in the fact that at the time there were a number of LitNut blogs commenting on polarizing elements in Joseph Conrad's Heart of Darkness, as well as a simultaneous new item concerning about a movement to bowdlerize a certain noun from [I]The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn[./I] The arguments surrounding such controversy jogged my memory, which somehow recalled an article on the same subject I had read way back in 1997, "A Flapping of Scolds," By Vince Passaro. (How I had managed to retain the printed form of that article after a passage of so many years is not so surprising in that when it comes to books and literary materials, your auntie is a pack rat, though not a "hoarder", one hopes, as broadcast on a cable show of that title. What's astounding about it is that I could actually find the article.)

Thus, with Vince Passaro's article as the central focus, "Railing at Greatness"
was born. Using various critics who had assailed Joseph Conrad and, unbelievably, Mark Twain for their alleged racism, as well as T. S. Eliot, whose works had been assailed for perceived anti-Semitism, Passaro's essay maintains that such attacks were not so much a question of "political correctness," atlthough many times outrage against perceived racism, sexism, and the various "-isms" serves a useful pretext for those who can't wait to ruin literary reputations. It is rather a case of a deep-seated resentment toward artists of excellence, whose irony, nuanced meaning and structure leaves so many readers, including critics, baffled.

In my opinion Passaro nailed it, effectively closing the book on such unfair judgements of authors who may-- now that I think of it-- have been way too good for us. It's the old complaint casting pearls in front of you know what.

Part of the reason for resenting these complex authors is a pragmatic view of
art in general and literature in particular. We often see that in educational systems (and not merely on the primary and secondary levels) in its predilection to make literature "earn its keep" rather than as art for its own sake.

Recently I've been reading and hearing about school after school dropping more and more "real" literature to make room for reading exercises tied into pragmatic and "outcome-related" purposes. Additionally, because of a completely unexpected and totally generous gesture on the part of one of our fellow LitNutters last week , I had the opportunity to re-read Heart of Darkness in the edition with an afterword by Vince Passaro. This current addendum, "Jungles and Deserts" (or "Son of 'Railing at Greatness') is a result of those two events.

Finally, in regard to your comment about my pessimism. From the 19th century on philosophy took a really dark turn; must have had been a reaction to Enlightenment or something. My worldview is nothing like that of Schopenhauer, if that's what you're getting at. I'm no Conrad either, but then who is?

I am, however, disheartened at the contemporary condition of publishing and creative writing these days. Schools have switched their priorities about teaching students how to read and write well, denying them opportunities to learn from excellent models. You're right about technology, though; the new platforms ("Twitter" et al.) and devices all but require people to type and text in a kind of shorthand. I'm not as worried about Kindles and the like, with a caveat. I only hope that the purveyors of the new forms providing access to the greatest thoughts of western civilization are thoughtful of the integrity of these works and take pains to preserve the works in their original forms without succumbing to economic pressures eager to simplify or "dumb them down."

On the contrary Aunty, I did not "plough" my way. It was a good bit of constructive reading that had my little grey cells being put through cardiovascular jumps. I had trouble at first getting my head around the linkage between Part 1 & the subsequent two parts, but once there, I emerged satiated, with sweat on my brow and an increased mental pulse.

Actually, it also had the benefit of opening up further potential avenues of reading on my part, as and when I can retire properly and get off this treadmill of providing for an ever increasing brood of grandkids & romantic liasions in foreign climes!

Take care & thanks again for a good week-end's reading material.

M.

Wow, Aunty, this was an outstanding read. I am very impressed. I'm fascinated on how you structured this essay. Though the three parts seem at times disconnected, they aren't. It seems to work wonderfully together.

There's so much here to comment on, that I'm going to have to do it in parts, and given my work load I don't know if I can say all I want this weekend. But I will get to all my comments in due time, I promise.

Let me start with the easy stuff.

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Originally Posted by AuntShecky

But just for the sake of argument, let's imagine a hypothetical teacher imbued with more bravado than a concern about career security who would--perhaps as a subversive sortie-- attempt to introduce his class to Vachel Lindsay's "The Congo." (Forget for a moment the question why a school district would hire for its faculty such a injudicious buffoon in the first place.) Yet imagine the repercussions arising from Lindsay’s's explosive opening line: "Fat black bucks in a wine-barrel room": the school board would run the teacher out of town on a rail, frantically wrought notes of apology would be quickly photocopied and sent home to parents, politicians would denounce the troublemaker on the local evening news.

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I had seen Vachel Lindsay's name in a couple of my modern American poetry books but I had never read him. In fact until now that I've looked him up, I didn't even know he was male. "Vachel" sounded like a woman's name to me. :lol:

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What I gather then, is that the depiction --arguably a celebration!-- of primitive people, or- as one of his subtitles rather rawly puts it --"their basic savagery." Still, the poem is not at all an accurate historical document nor an earnest sociological treatise; perhaps thinking it so provokes the initial outrage among contemporary readers. Yet, what "The Congo" confronts its readers with is not necessarily a region of the so-called "Dark Continent" as it actually exists, but as a talking picture of the place as it exists in the imagination. The poem and the ancillary parts of the work --such as stage directions along the margins of the text and the musical sound effects-- underscore the intended effect. Lindsay's fond wish was to restore poetry back to its early origins as "primitive singing." Thus "The Congo" is rich in rhythms and repetition, drumbeats, musical lines, such as the refrain "Boomlay,boomlay, boomlay, BOOM." Counterpointing the condescending depiction of the natives is repeated line (in all caps): “THEN I SAW THE CONGO, CREEPING THROUGH THE BLACK, CUTTING THROUGH THE FOREST WITH A GOLDEN TRACK.” This homage to the mystical power of the Congo River is the strongest image in the poem. Because of his insistent attention toward music in his poems, the Norton editors tell us that Lindsay paved the way for jazz-inflected poetry to enter the American literary landscape, influencing such later poets as --are you ready for this?--Langston Hughes. How’s that for irony?

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I completely agree; it is a celebration of primitive people. I would actually endorse this to be read in high school. The poetry is song constructed and shaped as a dramatic presentation. I think high schoolers would be engaged with it. Yes , however, the teacher will have to point out the language as reflective of what was the norm of an earlier generation.

So if the language would be seen today as indelicate, was Vachel Lindsay a racist? I guess by today's politically correct crowd, he would be. But that brings a question up. If a writer of passed generation portrays the theme of the noble savage, which is what Lindsay is really playing with, is he a de facto, without qualification racist? Check this from Lindsay's Wikipedia entry:

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Similarly, critics in academia often portray Lindsay as a well-meaning but misguided primitivist in his representations of Africans and African Americans. One such critic, Rachel DuPlessis, argues that the poem, while perhaps meant to be "hopeful," actually "others" Africans as an inherently violent race. In the poem and in Lindsays's defenses of it, DuPlessis hears Lindsay warning white readers not to be "hoo-doo'd" or seduced by violent African "mumbo jumbo." This warning seems to suggest that white civilization has been "infected" by African violence; Lindsay thus, in effect, "blames blacks for white violence directed against them." [4] Conversely, Susan Gubar notes approvingly that "the poem contains lines blaming black violence on white imperialism." While acknowledging that the poem seems to have given its author and audiences an excuse to indulge in "'romantic racism' or 'slumming in slang,'" she also observes that Lindsay was "much more liberal than many of his poetic contemporaries," and that he seems to have intended a statement against the kind of racist violence perpetrated under Leopold in the Congo.[5]

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Susan Gubar, a solid critic who I've read elsewhere, is right on in that assessment. I don't know who DuPlessis is, but wow is she spectacularly wrong. This is not a great poem, and I can see how there is a convoluted sort of logic that leads to a mixed message, but the intent is pretty clear that the narrator's sympathies are with the Africans.

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Originally Posted by AuntShecky

In “A Flapping of Scolds,” the original Harper’s article to which “Railing at Greatness” thread refers, Vince Passaro reminds us that: “What we despise about literature, and what exhausts us about modern literature in particular, is its irony, its acknowledgment that in most cases the beautiful process of creation is tinged with something slightly immoral, something exploitative of intimacies and experience, rude, vain, self-justifying, disloyal, unrestrained.”

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"Irony and pity," as Hemingway says in The Sun Also Rises, is the latest game. :wink5:

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Without studying the novella as closely as it demands, a casual reader of Conrad’s Heart of Darkness might find plenty of offensive fodder to justify his or her resentment. Upon closer analysis, the reader might come to realize that there are complex, often contradictory, tensions beneath the surface; this novel demands, as the cliché goes– a reading “between the lines.” For all the disagreeable epithets describing the natives, there are just as many ironic passages in Heart of Darkness to undermine the apparent racial condescension and promotion of the corrupt interests of the colonialists.

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That is quite right and a really good point I never thought about in this context. Just look through on how Conrad dramatizes the Europeans. It's quite clear how the Belgians, the Germans, the French, the Russians, the Dutch come across as negative, but even the English are seen as morally corrupt. How come no one jumps to the conclusion that Conrad thinks that white people are inherently corrupt? The critics who claim this novel portrays the Africans as stereotyped just don't seem to get it that this novel is not really about the Africans, it's about Europeans, and so there are no fully developed black characters. They are part of the setting.

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For instance, I found at least three separate instances of ironic subversion of the pro-colonial position all within three pages of Heart of Darkness...Just one short phrase packed with ironic paradox–“lugubrious drollery”– is a powerful hint of Marlow’s conflicted opinions about the ridiculous and ineffectual lengths to which the military will go to prop up and maintain the colonial system operated by white Europeans in search of wealth–no matter how laughably ineffectual the attempt. But perhaps more insightful is the judicial placement of a mere bit of punctuation: the exclamation point after the word “enemies.”

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Your word choice of "subversion" is perfect. That is exactly what is going on in more ways than one. Yes there is the subversion of colonialism as a philosophy ("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.") but there is the subversion to a greater, more universal theme than Conrad's contemporary issue of colonialism. You rightly point out lying as a motif later in your essay. Lying is subversion. It has to do with that great lie Marlow tells Kurtz's beloved. I'll get to that when I reach that part of your essay.

Thank you, Virgil, for reading this and for posting such thoughtful comments.

Re: Vachel Lindsay--I really wouldn't try to introduce "The Congo" to high school students, even though it does display, as the essay maintains, theatricality and tricks of showmanship, with the poem as an artistic rather than a sociological exercise. The poem is by no means as complex as Eliot's poetry and Conrad's novels, but as the essay explains, there just isn't time to give the students the proper background to understand its context.

The context is pretty bad. I do believe that the poem does treat the natives of the Congo region as "others." Even worse, one could make an argument that it exploits these people ( or exploits a white person's idea of Africans.) If Lindsay really wanted to send up the fallacy of superstition, there are plenty of superstitions held by white Americans at the time which he could have explored, even though that topic wouldn't lend itself to musicality of rhythm. Instead, he went for theatrics based on stereotypes, pandering to his audience's fascination with the exotic.

Oh, and I forgot to say, that similar criticism has been directed to Hart Crane's "Black Tambourine," written in 1926, Lindsay's era, same generational mind-set, etc. In a letter Crane wrote that to him, the only value of the poem is "in what a painter would call its 'tactile' quality,
an entirely aesthetic feature," adding that a "propagandist for either side of the Negro qustion could find anything he wanted to in it." Still, that last stanza of "Black Tambourine" is really,
really unsettling to me, reading it again in the year 2012:
http://www.poembird.com/hart-crane/h...ck-tambourine/

Not only that, since outcome-based curricula focused on standardized tests have resulted in fewer works of literature in the classroom, I for one would prefer that the choices be better than Vachel Lindsay's "The Congo."


Re: "Heart of Darkness"

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It's quite clear how the Belgians, the Germans, the French, the Russians, the Dutch come across as negative, but even the English are seen as morally corrupt.

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"Even" the English? Why not? Ask somebody whose ancestors (as were mine) were affected by the British system which encouraged conditions leading to mass starvation in Ireland beginning in 1845. There have been scores of documents and novels about the abuses of the British Empire, not to mention Kipling-stylecondescension ("The White Man's Burden.")

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How come no one jumps to the conclusion that Conrad thinks that white people are inherently corrupt?

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That Conrad considers the white man inherently corrupt isn't really a case of "jumping to conclusions," as there is evidence in the novella that he really does recognize the evil side of human nature within all of us. This view leads me to believe that Conrad, like Eliot, is a spiritual (rather than a political) conservative, in that man alone cannot redeem himself. It's important to keep in mind, however, that Conrad, again like Eliot, sees a glimmer of saving grace in the fact that we are human. (This is why Marlow, despite witnessing first hand Kurtz's degradation, still admires the man.)

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The critics who claim this novel portrays the Africans as stereotyped just don't seem to get it that this novel is not really about the Africans, it's about Europeans, and so there are no fully developed black characters. They are part of the setting.

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I see what you're getting at, but there couldn't be anything as stereotypical as propping up black characters as part of the "setting," like jungle plants or The Congo itself. (Vachel Lindsay does indeed use them this way-- the setting is the poem.)

I would argue that, even though Heart of Darkness doesn't really present a fully developed black character (unlike James Wait in the Narcissus novel), it recognizes basic humanity, such as when Marlow emphathizes with the suffering of the prisoners, before removing himself from the sight, because even a rough-tough tar like Marlow can suffer psychological pain from witnessing the suffering of his fellow human beings.

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Originally Posted by AuntShecky

Re: Vachel Lindsay--I really wouldn't try to introduce "The Congo" to high school students, even though it does display, as the essay maintains, theatricality and tricks of showmanship, with the poem as an artistic rather than a sociological exercise. The poem is by no means as complex as Eliot's poetry and Conrad's novels, but as the essay explains, there just isn't time to give the students the proper background to understand its context.

The context is pretty bad. I do believe that the poem does treat the natives of the Congo region as "others." Even worse, one could make an argument that it exploits these people ( or exploits a white person's idea of Africans.) If Lindsay really wanted to send up the fallacy of superstition, there are plenty of superstitions held by white Americans at the time which he could have explored, even though that topic wouldn't lend itself to musicality of rhythm. Instead, he went for theatrics based on stereotypes, pandering to his audience's fascination with the exotic.

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On re-reading "The Congo" I would have to say you are correct. While I don't think Lindsay was intending to be mean spirited, the stereotyping is rather cartoonish. Other than the interesting language, I don't see much that is redeeming in there.

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Oh, and I forgot to say, that similar criticism has been directed to Hart Crane's "Black Tambourine," written in 1926, Lindsay's era, same generational mind-set, etc. In a letter Crane wrote that to him, the only value of the poem is "in what a painter would call its 'tactile' quality,
an entirely aesthetic feature," adding that a "propagandist for either side of the Negro qustion could find anything he wanted to in it." Still, that last stanza of "Black Tambourine" is really,
really unsettling to me, reading it again in the year 2012:
http://www.poembird.com/hart-crane/h...ck-tambourine/

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Yikes. I've never seen that Crane poem. That may be racist, and I say "may" because I don't think I understand what exactly he's trying to say. Unlike "The Congo" this poem does feel mean spirited.

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"Even" the English? Why not?

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No, I wasn't trying to absolve the English. Certainly they had their fair share of subjugating people. After all American slavery started with the British colonies. The "even" referred to Conrad's supposed jingoism. For clarity, I should say: "Even the English for Conrad ..."

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That Conrad considers the white man inherently corrupt isn't really a case of "jumping to conclusions," as there is evidence in the novella that he really does recognize the evil side of human nature within all of us. This view leads me to believe that Conrad, like Eliot, is a spiritual (rather than a political) conservative, in that man alone cannot redeem himself. It's important to keep in mind, however, that Conrad, again like Eliot, sees a glimmer of saving grace in the fact that we are human. (This is why Marlow, despite witnessing first hand Kurtz's degradation, still admires the man.)

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I agree, though I'm not sure I would use the word spiritual for Conrad. I was going to get to that. Conrad was a skeptic when it came to religion. Eliot was clearly religious. I'll have something to add to "redeeming," again when I get to that part of your essay.

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I see what you're getting at, but there couldn't be anything as stereotypical as propping up black characters as part of the "setting," like jungle plants or The Congo itself. (Vachel Lindsay does indeed use them this way-- the setting is the poem.)

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Do you think they're stereotypical in Heart of Darkness? I guess somewhat, but to me it doesn't feel cartoonish like Lindsay. I don't know what it would have been like in the heart of the Congo, but it does feel real to me.

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I would argue that, even though Heart of Darkness doesn't really present a fully developed black character (unlike James Wait in the Narcissus novel), it recognizes basic humanity, such as when Marlow emphathizes with the suffering of the prisoners, before removing himself from the sight, because even a rough-tough tar like Marlow can suffer psychological pain from witnessing the suffering of his fellow human beings.

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Absolutely. Also the darkness that comes out of the heart of the whites is not really because they are suddenly in a jungle. The darkness is a result of the lack of a "policing" element of society, a result of unfettered freedom where morality loses its power to govern human nature. In Freudian terms (I really hate Freudian terms, but I think it's illustrative) the superego is gone and the ego is now allowed to run rapid.

Thanks again, Virgil. You may be right that Conrad isn't/wasn't particularly religious, but
I still think he is/was a spiritual conservative in that he doesn't/didn't believe in the perfectibility of man, which those maintaining more liberal philosophical beliefs might see
as a possible goal.

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Originally Posted by AuntShecky

One of the complexities of Heart of Darkness is its ironic and ambiguous relationship between Marlow and the mysterious Kurtz–does Marlow admire or deplore this “remarkable man”–or is there a little of both? Complicating matters even more strongly is the detached and elusive manner of conveying the narrative. Vince Passaro’s insightful afterword to the Signet edition explains the multi-layered set-up. While waiting for the tide to turn onboard a cruise vessel on the Thames in the “sepulchral city,” a small group passes the time by listening to one of their number tell of his experiences in a forbidding land. As Passaro reminds us,
Viewing Kurtz --as depicted by Marlow–is catching a refracted glimpse through a prism. The result, as Passaro states, is
Even Conrad himself was aware of the intricate nature of his structure, and Marlow speaks for him. For all of his sardonic irony, the sea-going storyteller confesses how much he deplores deviating from the straightforward, unfiltered truth:

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I do agree Aunty with your analysis that Conrad is removing the immediacy of the story line for a purpose, and the observation of Marlow speaking in French was something that never dawned on me. However I have a problem with the "thrice removed" point that Mr. Pissaro makes. It's not an original idea and I've seen it before, but while one can justify the point because it fits into the overall scheme of Conrad's aesthetics, I have always bristled at it. It doesn't seem to fit what's going on with the narrative. Yes, the young sailor is relating what Marlow is saying. But the language that comes from Marlow is clearly Marlow's in quotation marks without any filtering through the sailor's mind and experience. In fact all the moralizing, all the philosophic observations are Marlow's. The young sailor adds nothing. We don't even know anything about him to create that prism effect that we get with seeing Kurtz through Marlow. Does the young sailor even comment much on Marlow or the story? No. The reasons that I see for the framing structure is (a) Marlow is allowed to speak which is completely different relating of story than a journal/diary entry; (b) we get a stand in for the effect of the narrative on readers, an emotional reaction; (c) more importantly we get a visual perspective outside of Marlow. This visual perspective is that of society at large, the society of those who have not passed through the heart of darkness, the perspective of the uninitiated, the one who has not seen the revelation of the horror. He serves the same purpose as Kurtz's beloved does at the end. I'll have more on that later. Now there is a parallel with the young sailor mesmerized with Marlow as Marlow is mesmerized with Kurtz. That holds, but I really have never been convinced his documenting of the story serves as a further removal of the story line. Hope that made sense.

That's not really part of the issue at hand, but I felt compelled to add my insight to this novel I've now read a half dozen times. Plus I love this novel. It's in the very top of novels ever.

Even though yours fooly is one who downplays the influence of autobiography within an author's work of fiction, I think that on the question of Marlowe's mentally translating French into English, we have to remind ourselves that for Conrad, English was his third language. It's hard enough for native speakers to write anything worthwhile, imagine how difficult it was for him-- and yet he produced this masterpiece. He must have been a genius, no doubt about it.

I'm pleased you mentioned that Russian sailor in the book --the one dressed in the harlequin outfit who was such a sycophant for Kurtz. I saw him as a stand-in for Conrad, in an amusing bit of self-deprecating humor and took it to be a much welcome sidetrip of comic relief, amid all the degradation and
gloominess of Heart of Darkness.

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Originally Posted by AuntShecky

I'm pleased you mentioned that Russian sailor in the book --the one dressed in the harlequin outfit who was such a sycophant for Kurtz. I saw him as a stand-in for Conrad, in an amusing bit of self-deprecating humor and took it to be a much welcome sidetrip of comic relief, amid all the degradation and
gloominess of Heart of Darkness.

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Interesting point on the Russian as standing in for Conrad. Yes, very likely given Conrad was Ukrainian & Polish. But I think even more importantly the sycophant nature is reflection of Marlow, who in essence is also sycophant. Conrad is fantastic at balancing and reflecting characters in his stories. One could write a book on it, if one isn't written already.

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Originally Posted by AuntShecky

Part Two of Three
Even Conrad himself was aware of the intricate nature of his structure, and Marlow speaks for him. For all of his sardonic irony, the sea-going storyteller confesses how much he deplores deviating from the straightforward, unfiltered truth:
...Yet when the world around him is “rotten” sometimes the only thing to do is sift it through a glass darkly, tell a kind of “lie”–fiction- in order to comprehend more fully the truth. (“Tell the truth,” writes Emily Dickinson, “but tell it slant.”)

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That line about lies is critical to understanding the story. It connects to the lie he tells to Kurtz's beloved at the end. I'll hold off commenting on that until I get to that part of your essay, but you raise an interesting idea here, that is, Marlow as an unreliable narrator. I'm not acutely aware of a place that Marlow is unreliable, but it does feel correct. It would fit into a theme of appearance and reality. However for an unreliable narrator to have significance, we have to see the disparity in a sort of irony. Next time I read the novel I'll have to look for it.

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Later in the same paragraph, Marlow admits that in an earlier conversation he had engaged in “pretence”:

It is possible to interpret this as a direct admonition to the reader against a facile acceptance of the literal story; Marlow --and his creator-- seem to be urging us to take nothing in the novella on face value.

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Well that's certainly ironic because we hardly ever see Kurtz. That part of being able "to see" is I think a reference to Conrad's aesthetic philosophy. In an introduction to TNotN he says:

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My task which I am trying to achieve is, by the power of the written word, to make you hear, to make you feel -- it is, before all, to make you see. That -- and no more, and it is everything. If I succeed, you shall find there according to your deserts: encouragement, consolation, fear, charm -- all you demand; and, perhaps, also that glimpse of truth for which you have forgotten to ask.

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The fact that we never directly see Kurtz in his rapaciousness, his murdering, his plundering is significant. It's all off stage, if you will.

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There are other issues brought up by contemporary readers, whipped into a frenzy by reactive critics whom Passaro’s 1997 Harper’s article confronts and disarms. In the preface to the Signet edition of Heart of Darkness, Joyce Carol Oates –a scholar and prolific writer whose name appears in print so often that one wouldn’t be surprised one day to find a published collection of her grocery lists–recounts the aspects within Heart of Darkness which spark outrage among readers who perceive offensive elements. “In recent years Joseph Conrad’s . . .ideas of gender, race, class and hegemony have been severely criticized. The assumptions of Caucasian male privilege are no longer taken for granted.” Therefore, Oates explains, “the occasionally dogmatic and even derisive nature” of some of Conrad’s descriptions may strike” a discordant note” among readers outside the category of his earliest white male readers.

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and

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Although Conrad is a moralist for whom writing fiction is a “vocation akin to the priesthood,” he “painfully reveals himself,” Oates says, as “an unquestioning heir of centuries of Caucasian bigotry.” Still, she argues that “Marlow, for all his condescension, represents a degree of humanity not found in the other Caucasian Europeans who are intent from wresting from black Africa all that they can get.” Oates reminds us that Marlow's “sharp cinematic eye” is effective in that it “brings alive for us those suffering black men, whose plight is meant to move the hearts of Conrad’s educated, well-to-do readers.”

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Yes, and that's the point of our original discussion. While it's tough to separate Marlow's stance toward the natives from Conrad's, we see in Marlow compassion toward natives. And if the central character has that compassion, and that compassion is the moral of the novel, then we can only conclude that Conrad's attitude toward the natives is not of bigotry. Condescension perhaps, but not bigotry.

Let me push on.

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Originally Posted by AuntShecky

Startling connections unite Conrad and his contemporary T.S. Eliot. Both men were expatriates. Having been born in the Ukraine, Conrad witnessed cruelty first hand when his father spoke out against the Russian rulers of his country, resulting in the family’s exile and indirectly causing the deaths of both parents while Conrad was still a child. Conrad spent his early life at sea, eventually becoming a British subject in 1886. Born and educated in the United States, Eliot made his permanent move in 1914, after Ezra Pound had convinced him that England would provide an atmosphere more conducive to a literary vocation rather than America could.

Another thing both men hold in common is their literary genius, but their reputations have not always commanded the respect they deserve. Passaro’s Harper’s article links the two men because over the last couple of decades both have been unfairly vilified by critics who have been, to use Passaro ‘s succinct phrase, “skinned like a rabbit.” Both the novelist and poet have been accused of bigotry: Conrad for his alleged racial and gender condescension, Eliot charged with perceived anti-Semitism. On a superficial level, the charges against them seem not completely without basis, yet --since their work has often been misinterpreted and misunderstood-- both cases can be countered with evidence to the contrary.

There are several other similarities as well, in their choice of symbols to depict the basic corruption of humankind. In Conrad’s case images of an untamed jungle, rotting and decayed run all the way through Heart of Darkness. We find the flip side of this excess in the sparseness of deserts, nature drying up in numerous Eliot poems, notably “The Waste Land” and “The Hollow Men.” Indeed, the epigraph to the latter poem alludes to Heart of Darkness: “Mistah Kurtz–he dead.”

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I've read both extensively and have been a great admirer of both of their life works. I understand the link between the two because of the recent charges of bigotry, but I'm not sure I would have ever linked them as of one mind. Yes, Eliot does quote Conrad. Eliot I think is more concerned with the culture, while Conrad has more of a Geopolitical outlook and not the culture per se. Eliot is religious to his core, Conrad is not, though religion enters some of his works subtly. I see almost no religion here in Heart of Darkness. Eliot was a professorial PhD thinker, while Conrad was a sailor, a man of action, and an adventurer at heart.

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Yet there is an even deeper bond between the two writers in that their respective artistic visions regard mankind as basically flawed and human nature as so profoundly imperfect that it can not be redeemed in its earthly form. In this way, both Eliot and Conrad are “moralists.” Although Oates’s foreword states that Heart of Darkness suggests “a pessimism so deeply entrenched in Conrad’s work as to be identified with a self-serving political conservatism that conveniently renders any form of activism, even protest, ineffective. For if all men harbor darkness in their hearts, why try to save them? Why even pity them?”

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First where I agree with that. Yes, they are both moralists and they both see man as inherently flawed. If by "human nature as so profoundly imperfect that it can not be redeemed in its earthly form" you mean that salvation by Christ is required, then I would agree with that for Eliot, but it's more complicated than that. If your looking at The Waste Land, I would say that Eliot is looking at a culture that has veered away from a moral core, which implies that it's manifest hollowness is not an inherent state. There was a time (Dante's culture, the culture of the Grail myth) when humanity made the correct choices. These are not permanent flaws he highlights in Waste Land. It's akin to the times in the Old Testament where the Jews veered away from God's laws. Man can be redeemed, and I believe the ending of The Waste land suggests that. The Four Quartets, the other great Eliot work, and my personal favorite, does not deal with man's poor choices but with his state before God, and so the need for supernatural grace for salvation is deeply part of the work.

Conrad never suggests anywhere that I recall a Christian salvation. Can man be redeemed for Conrad? Yes, even in The Heart of Darkness. From Part 3:

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This is the reason why I affirm that Kurtz was a remarkable man. He had something to say. He said it. Since I had peeped over the edge myself, I understand better the meaning of his stare, that could not see the flame of the candle, but was wide enough to embrace the whole universe, piercing enough to penetrate all the hearts that beat in the darkness. He had summed up--he had judged. `The horror!' He was a remarkable man. After all, this was the expression of some sort of belief; it had candour, it had conviction, it had a vibrating note of revolt in its whisper, it had the appalling face of a glimpsed truth--the strange commingling of desire and hate.

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Even Marlow is redeemed by telling that lie to Kurtz's beloved, a lie he hates so much but feels obligated to give.

But there are lots of other examples of redemption in Conrad's works. Jim, from Lord Jim is a novel about redemption, about a young man who in a moment makes such a cowardly act that he feels the need to leave society. What confuses readers of Conrad is that all consuming pessimism. The pessimism is more linked to a fatalistic view of nature than the inherent flaws of mankind. Conrad portrays many positive views of mankind in their struggle against the fates. Lena in Victory is a remarkable character who saves her lover; the crew who try to save Jim in TNotN act from human compassion; and Mrs. Verloc in The Secret Agent is a remarkable woman of strength who tries to save her son. Redemption for Conrad is rooted in the positive values in humanity. It's not all darkness.

I have no idea where Oates jumps to that conclusion in that quote. In fact her logic is idiotic. Christianity has always claimed human nature as flawed, and yet it tries to save humanity and certainly pities the fallen. Where is she coming from with this? "Conrad’s work as to be identified with a self-serving political conservatism that conveniently renders any form of activism, even protest, ineffective." "Self-serving political conservatism?" I thought we came to the conclusion that Conrad was subversive in this work, and that he was exposing the inhumanity of colonialism. What an unprofessional claim (self-serving) for a critic. An artist creates through his vision. What has self serving have to do with anything? So one can turn around and ask if Oates's writing is self-serving political leftism.

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But one can argue that the kind of “conservatism” shared by Conrad and Eliot is not of the political kind, but rather spiritual. It does not seem that either man would prefer that civilization return to an impoverished past rife with worse manifestations of blatant darkness and stark brutality. Nor does it appear that Conrad and Eliot would actively block the enlightenment opening the door for the inchoate social reforms originating in the early twentieth century. Even the Church, always known for its traditionalism and glacially-slow acceptance of social change, championed social progress with the papal encyclical Rerum Novae. In this decree and in his other teachings, Leo XIII condemned the avarice associated with the overweening quest for wealth, warned against the abuses of rampant capitalism, and strongly championed justice for workers. One can only assume that Eliot, a devout Christian to his very last breath, was onboard with the pope on these issues. For while spiritual conservatives believe that man himself may never achieve perfection, their philosophy is not necessarily antithetical to ameliorating the conditions surrounding man’s life

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I'm always impressed with anyone who's able to quote a Papal encyclical. :lol: I'm not sure "spiritual conservative" is the best term. I've already described the religious differences between the two. For Eliot his Conservatism lay in his cultural ideal. For Conrad, to the extent he was a Conservative, it lay in his nationalistic views. Would either have prevented the 20th century social reforms? Well, Eliot lived through most of the century. I don't know if he tried to hamper them. It's possible he was against it, but I don't know one way or the other. Conrad had more of an embracing heart to people. He had lived and sailed among all sorts of people. I don't see him as hampering fairness and inclusiveness.

Well, that's a bit for now. I'm going to be away for the rest of the week. I'll continue next weekend.

Thank you for investing so much time and thought in this, Virgil.

I agree with you that Conrad is not as openly religious as Eliot, but I still maintain that their respective visions see human nature as deeply flawed and corrupt.

I'm afraid that I strongly take issue with a couple of your points:

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There was a time (Dante's culture, the culture of the Grail myth) when humanity made the correct choices.

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Well, it can be argued that humanity has seldom, if ever, made "correct choices." If that were the case, Dante would never had felt the need to put his enemies in Hell, as Renaissance Italy was rotten with religious abuse and hypocrisy, not to mention widespread corruption among the nobility. As far as the culture of the holy grail-- those myths and legends are imbedded with incorrect choices: perfidy and betrayal, brutality, tangential political and religious treachery related to the Crusades, along with tales of individuals who make bad decisions: Lancelot (attempting to steal a man's wife as well as abandoning his own); the Tristan-Isolde-King Mark triangle, etc.

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These are not permanent flaws he highlights in Waste Land. It's akin to the times in the Old Testament where the Jews veered away from God's laws

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True, but also a reaction to European disillusionment and a general breakdown of society after the end of the First World War. And don't forget allusions to the "Fisher King," also a figure in the Holy Grail "culture."

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Originally Posted by AuntShecky

Thank you for investing so much time and thought in this, Virgil.

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My pleasure. I can't quite finish up tonight, but perhaps tomorrow.

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I'm afraid that I strongly take issue with a couple of your points:

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There was a time (Dante's culture, the culture of the Grail myth) when humanity made the correct choices.

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Oh that's not my opinion, and it's certainly not a fact. I was speaking for Eliot as he puts that forth through The Waste Land. He sets up it up as a contrast, the modern world as waste land and the world of the Grail myth. I agree with you, Eliot is looking at it through nostalgia. Though I kind of sympathize with the notion of modern man as the "hollow" man. :wink5: Sorry if I wasn't clear.

Let me finally address what I've been putting off and what I consider the key to the novel, or at least one of the keys.

Before I do, can you explain to me why Oats calls Conrad a misogynist?

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Originally Posted by AuntShecky

Still, a glimmer of a slightly less pessimistic view of man can be gleaned from the concluding scene of Marlow’s narrative. This passage in which Marlow visits Kurtz’s mourning girlfriend is the scene which Oates cites as an example of Conrad’s misogyny, in that women are treated condescendingly, like children, in that they in every way the weaker
sex. Marlow, the man who thoroughly detests lying, assures her that Kurtz died with her name on her lips rather than his actual dying words–“The horror! The horror!” Rather than telling the woman the truth, he decides to spare her further grief. Readers can construe this scene as a revelation that Marlow is capable of performing an act of kindness; beneath his gruff exterior and rock-hard conviction of man’s essential corruption, he has a heart. In any event, only a man who has looked evil squarely in the face can know the meaning of redemption, eminently achievable through understanding and forgiveness.

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You absolutely read that scene correctly; it's an act of kindness to spare her grief. Actually it's more than that as I'll explain in a second, but where is the misogyny? Misogyny is an act of hatred toward women, either contempt for their womanhood or a physical abuse. Joe Christmas from Faulkner's Light In August is a misogynist. Marlow is being kind, a gentleman. I don't see misogyny here. Oats is way out of line.

Let me take a few places you quoted and look at the language.

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“They walked erect and slow, balancing small baskets full of earth on their heads, and the clink kept time with their footsteps. Black rags were wound round their loins, and the short ends waggled to and fro like tails. I could see every rib, the joints of their limbs were like knots in a rope; each had an iron collar on his neck, and all were connected together with a chain whose bights swung between them, rhythmically clinking. Another report from the cliff made me think suddenly of that ship of war I had seen firing into a continent. It was the same kind of ominous voice but these men could by no means of the imagination be called enemies. They were called criminals, and the outraged law, like the bursting shells, had come to them an insoluble mystery from the sea.”

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“My idea was to let that chain-gang get out of my sight before I climbed the hill. You know I am not particularly tender; I’ve had to strike and to fend off. I’ve had to resist and to attack sometimes–that’s the only way of resisting-without counting the exact cost, according to the demands of such sort of life as I had blundered into...I’ve seen the devil of violence, and the devil of greed, and the devil of hot desire; but, by all the stars! these were strong, lusty, red-eyed devils, that swayed and drove men–men I tell you. . . “

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“You know I hate, detest, and can’t bear a lie, not because I am straighter than the rest of us, but simply because it appalls me. There is a taint of death, a flavour of mortality in lies–-which is exactly what I hate and detest about the world–what I want to forget. It makes me miserable and sick, like biting something rotten would do.”

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In the first quote, Marlow is describing a horrid scene of dehumanization. In the second quote he describes the roots of the human heart's darkness, not in specific terms but in abstract qualities of violence, greed, desire, lust. What connects the two is a first hand visual experience: "I could see every rib..." and "I've seen the devil..." Through his experience he's come to see the human heart's darkness, it's capacity for evil.

Now that quote about detesting a lie is odd. The reason is rather vague, "because it appalls me." He is addressing the sailors to who he is reciting the story, but especially to that young sailor who is reciting/documenting Marlow's words. He is a young man, inexperienced to the darkness. The lie that is the vale that prevents society from seeing the human darkness is what will be rent by Marlow's story. Marlow's has seen the evil and he is going to tell it to his fellow sailors. A lie is what preserves society from seeing the horror of reality.

Now lets fast forward to the lie Marlow tells Kurtz's beloved.

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"`We shall always remember him,' I said hastily.

"`No!' she cried. `It is impossible that all this should be lost-- that such a life should be sacrificed to leave nothing--but sorrow. You know what vast plans he had. I knew of them, too--I could not perhaps understand--but others knew of them. Something must remain. His words, at least, have not died.'

"`His words will remain,' I said.

"`And his example,' she whispered to herself. `Men looked up to him-- his goodness shone in every act. His example--'

"`True,' I said; `his example, too. Yes, his example. I forgot that.'

"But I do not. I cannot--I cannot believe--not yet. I cannot believe that I shall never see him again, that nobody will see him again, never, never, never.'

"She put out her arms as if after a retreating figure, stretching them back and with clasped pale hands across the fading and narrow sheen of the window. Never see him! I saw him clearly enough then. I shall see this eloquent phantom as long as I live, and I shall see her, too, a tragic and familiar Shade, resembling in this gesture another one, tragic also, and bedecked with powerless charms, stretching bare brown arms over the glitter of the infernal stream, the stream of darkness. She said suddenly very low, `He died as he lived.'

"`His end,' said I, with dull anger stirring in me, `was in every way worthy of his life.'

"`And I was not with him,' she murmured. My anger subsided before a feeling of infinite pity.

"`Everything that could be done--' I mumbled.

"`Ah, but I believed in him more than any one on earth--more than his own mother, more than--himself. He needed me! Me! I would have treasured every sigh, every word, every sign, every glance.'

"I felt like a chill grip on my chest. `Don't,' I said, in a muffled voice.

"`Forgive me. I--I have mourned so long in silence--in silence. . . . You were with him--to the last? I think of his loneliness. Nobody near to understand him as I would have understood. Perhaps no one to hear. . . .'

"`To the very end,' I said, shakily. `I heard his very last words. . . .' I stopped in a fright.

"`Repeat them,' she murmured in a heart-broken tone. `I want--I want--something--something--to--to live with.'

"I was on the point of crying at her, `Don't you hear them?' The dusk was repeating them in a persistent whisper all around us, in a whisper that seemed to swell menacingly like the first whisper of a rising wind. `The horror! The horror!'

"`His last word--to live with,' she insisted. `Don't you understand I loved him--I loved him--I loved him!'

"I pulled myself together and spoke slowly.

"`The last word he pronounced was--your name.'

"I heard a light sigh and then my heart stood still, stopped dead short by an exulting and terrible cry, by the cry of inconceivable triumph and of unspeakable pain. `I knew it--I was sure!' . . . She knew. She was sure. I heard her weeping; she had hidden her face in her hands. It seemed to me that the house would collapse before I could escape, that the heavens would fall upon my head. But nothing happened. The heavens do not fall for such a trifle. Would they have fallen, I wonder, if I had rendered Kurtz that justice which was his due? Hadn't he said he wanted only justice? But I couldn't. I could not tell her. It would have been too dark--too dark altogether. . . ."

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There is a Victorian notion (perhaps it's rooted in western culture, but very prominent in Victorian times) that womanhood is a socializing force. Men go out and destroy themselves, fight wars, smash down castles, kill and steal, and tear down society, but women socialize, marry, have children, build families, nurture, inter stitch the fabric that makes up society. You see it in movie westerns, the woman that comes west to socialize the gunfighters. Kurt's beloved stands in for the great European civilization that is described at the beginning of the novel. Such a society has been built on keeping the darkness of the human heart out of sight. Notice how her connection to Kurtz is built on faith: "But I do not. I cannot--I cannot believe--not yet. I cannot believe that..." and ""`Ah, but I believed in him more than any one on earth--more than his own mother, more than--himself." That belief is the faith that preserves and builds society. It's the impulse that will build a family, and is emblematic for all that keeps the darkness of man's capability to dehumanize out of sight. The lie preserves society. That young sailor is shaken by Marlow's story because he's been given a vision of this horror, a horror that Marlow refuses to pass on to the woman. "It would have been too dark--too dark altogether." He keeps the chain gang out of sight from Kutz's beloved. As Eliot says in The Four Quartets, "“Humankind cannot bear very much reality.”

Now perhaps that is an outdated notion of womanhood, but certainly it's not malicious or misogynist.

In her Introduction to the Signet edition, Oates states that "The assumptions of Caucasian male privilege are no longer taken for granted amond many readers. It should be acknowledged by Conrad's admirers that the audience for whom he imagined his work as almost exclusively male, and assuredly Caucasian." She quotes a passage from Heart of Darkness:

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It's queer how out of touch with truth women are. They live in a world of their own, and there never has been anything like it, and never can be. It is too beautiful altogther, and if they were to set it up it would go to pieces before the first sunset. Some confounded fact we men have been living contentedly with ever since the day of creation would start up and knock the whole thing over.

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There's a way of interpreting that last sentence in which Conrad may be subtly criticizing the ruling males for being so domineering and unwilling to share power that they'd "knock over" a matriarchal society in order to reinstate their ukase. But evidently Oates doesn't see it that way:

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Leaving aside for a moment the improbability of an entire sex, and that the child-bearing sex, being permanently "out of touch with truth," we might assume, for argument's sake, that Marlow is speaking of a financially well-off, minimally educated class of women who, being denied the possibility of careers and any measure of autonomy apart from fathers, husbands, brothers, or sons, were kept in a perpetual state of childish dependence upon men--the "fact"-bearing sex.

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Here Joyce Carol Oates recounts indisputable historical facts; however such an accurate view of the lot of womankind was-- except for early feminists-- seldom brought up at all during the time Conrad was writing. Using a twentieth and twenty-first feminist mind-set to criticize a work from a previous century might therefore be a tad unfair; it's not "political correctness" per se but rather the type of thing Vince Passaro's Harper's article (and "Railing at Greatness") examines.

Oates then cites what she calls the "gothic-melodramatic" final scene in which Marlow lies to Kurtz's "beloved" --the scene which you and I both agree seems to redeem a shred of kindness within Marlow's character-- but one in which Oates sees as misogynistic, "the very emblem of Victorian moral hypocrisy and delusion," because "Conrad's" --not Marlow's!-- "misogyny is
disguised by an air of pity and condescension:

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"Men must lie to women, Conrad argues, to preserve women's childlike state of delusion. In Conrad's ranked moral universe, men of a certain class are custodians of truth, facts, ideas, and the respect for tradition outlined in the British Navy Handbook. . .women are associated with lies, subterfuge, hypocrisy."

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Joyce Carol thinks Marlow lies to maintain the misogynist status quo. But here's an idea--what if that is merely a pretext to cover up the fact that Marlow, nearly redeeming himself with an act of kindness, doesn't want to appear soft and weak to the salts who are listening to his tale?

Oates contrasts Conrad's/Marlow's view of Caucasian women to that of the description of Kurtz's native mistress, "of whom Marlow awkwardly describes as 'barbarous,' 'savage and superb, wild-eyed and magnificent' " and so forth, which, according to Oates, only amount to

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Words piled upon words, suggesting a generalized allegorical figure, a carved wooden sculpture symbolizing African Woman, and not a living breathing individual woman who is supposed to be passionately in love with the dying Kurtz.

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But for some reason Oates fails to see that in Heart of Darkness, this particular character is one of the few whom Conrad allows to display honest human emotion:

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She came abreast of steamer, stood still, and faced us. Her long shadow fell to the water's edge. Her face had a tragic and fierce aspect of wild sorrow and of dumb pain mingled with the fear of some struggling, half-shaped resolve. She stood looking at us without a stir, and like the wilderness itself, with an air of brooding over an inscrutable purpose. A whole minute passed, and then she made a step forward. There was a low jingle, a glint of yellow metal, a sway of fringed draperies, and she stopped as if her heart had failed her. . .She looked at us all as if her life had depended upon the unswerving steadiness of her glance. Suddenly she opened her bared arms and threw them up rigid above her head, as though in an uncontrollable desire to touch the sky. . .She turned away slowly, walked on, following the bank and passed into the bushes to the left. Once only her eyes gleamed back at us in the dusk of the thickets before she disappeared.

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In the very next paragraph the "man in patches" confesses that if she had come upon the boat, he would have shot her because of her vehement complaints to Kurtz about the man in patches having taken some "miserable rags he had picked up in the storeroom" --which could be interpreted, perhaps, as her way of defending Kurtz's "turf," so to speak. In any case, this is the behavior of a "living breathing individual woman," not some elaborate symbol.

Your final paragraph:

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There is a Victorian notion (perhaps it's rooted in western culture, but very prominent in Victorian times) that womanhood is a socializing force. Men go out and destroy themselves, fight wars, smash down castles, kill and steal, and tear down society, but women socialize, marry, have children, build families, nurture, inter stitch the fabric that makes up society. You see it in movie westerns, the woman that comes west to socialize the gunfighters. Kurt's beloved stands in for the great European civilization that is described at the beginning of the novel. Such a society has been built on keeping the darkness of the human heart out of sight.

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certainly echoes the 19th century feminism of Shaw, whose view of woman, influenced by evolutionary ideas, was a bit idealised but nonetheless on the right track as far as securing the rights of women. I really don't think Conrad was anywhere near a place where he would share Shaw's modern views; however, Oates's characterising him as a misogynist is overly harsh. The point is not every male Caucasian writer of the time was a woman-hater. For instance, James Stephens satirizes a character who is bigoted against females in his witty short story, "The Blind Man," one of the works mentioned in another recent LitNet thread.

Hi Aunty, I'm back. :)

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Originally Posted by AuntShecky

In her Introduction to the Signet edition, Oates states that "The assumptions of Caucasian male privilege are no longer taken for granted amond many readers. It should be acknowledged by Conrad's admirers that the audience for whom he imagined his work as almost exclusively male, and assuredly Caucasian." She quotes a passage from Heart of Darkness:

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Aunty, my quibble with Oates is not that Conrad wasn’t sexist. I acknowledge he was sexist, and perhaps, though not clear to me, more sexist than the average intelligent man of his day. That would certainly go against him when it comes to modern values. My problem is with Oates’s use of the word “misogyny” to describe Conrad. He may have been sexist and condescending, but misogynist he was not. Misogyny is the hatred of women, either in the sense that they are harmful in some way or that one feels justification to physically abuse them. From what I remember of a short biography, he was a happily married man. I even have a vague memory of him being somewhat hen-pecked as a husband, though I won’t swear to that here. I don’t recall anything about abuse of women, and certainly from his writings, while at times sexist, certainly showed them no sense of hatred. I’ve mentioned his two strong female characters somewhere in this thread, one a Mrs. Verloc from The Secret Agent. Here is a Wikipedia description of her character.

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Mrs. Winnie Verloc: Verloc's wife. She cares for her brother Stevie, who has an unknown mental disability. She is younger than her husband and thinks of what may have happened if she had married her original love, rather than choosing to marry the successful Verloc. A loyal wife, she becomes incensed upon learning of the death of her brother due to her husband's plotting, and kills him with a knife in the heart. She dies, presumably by drowning herself to avoid the gallows.

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http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Sec...ent#Characters
That doesn’t quite do it justice. She is the moral core of the novel and by far the character with the strongest mettle.

His strongest, most endearing female character is Lena from Victory, a very strong young lady who has more inherent sense than her beloved of this novel, and through her sacrifice possibly rises to Conrad’s most heroic character of any of his works. Unfortunately Wikipedia doesn’t have an entry on her. I completely endorse both these novels. You should be able to find them at a library. Read either of them if you have time and desire and let me know if this is a man who’s a misogynist.

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It's queer how out of touch with truth women are. They live in a world of their own, and there never has been anything like it, and never can be. It is too beautiful altogther, and if they were to set it up it would go to pieces before the first sunset. Some confounded fact we men have been living contentedly with ever since the day of creation would start up and knock the whole thing over.

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Yes, but that’s clearly Marlow speaking, a hardened lifelong sailor, and not necessarily Conrad. In the world experience of Marlow, he has never lived in a permanent society. This is Marlow having gone to the abyss of darkness while women have remained behind to uphold civilization.

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There's a way of interpreting that last sentence in which Conrad may be subtly criticizing the ruling males for being so domineering and unwilling to share power that they'd "knock over" a matriarchal society in order to reinstate their ukase.

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Yes, that reading supports my reading of womanhood as representative of civilization.

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But evidently Oates doesn't see it that way:
Here Joyce Carol Oates recounts indisputable historical facts; however such an accurate view of the lot of womankind was-- except for early feminists-- seldom brought up at all during the time Conrad was writing. Using a twentieth and twenty-first feminist mind-set to criticize a work from a previous century might therefore be a tad unfair; it's not "political correctness" per se but rather the type of thing Vince Passaro's Harper's article (and "Railing at Greatness") examines.

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I’m not denying those historical facts, but she’s taking a statement of a character, who is a cynical, hard boiled sailor in a novel, and imposing it on Conrad the person. Conrad had two children, and though I don’t know for a fact if he would acknowledge child bearing as an important experience, but my guess is he would. Marlow in the several of Conrad’s works he appears, has never even had a love interest. Though they are both sailors, there is an experiential difference between the two. To conflate Marlow with Conrad is like conflating Hamlet with Shakespeare. It can’t be supported.

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Oates then cites what she calls the "gothic-melodramatic" final scene in which Marlow lies to Kurtz's "beloved" --the scene which you and I both agree seems to redeem a shred of kindness within Marlow's character-- but one in which Oates sees as misogynistic, "the very emblem of Victorian moral hypocrisy and delusion," because "Conrad's" --not Marlow's!-- "misogyny is
disguised by an air of pity and condescension:

Joyce Carol thinks Marlow lies to maintain the misogynist status quo.

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If Oates's wants to characterize that lie as condescension and sexist, I could agree. My problem is she characterizes it as misogyny and it's not misogyny.

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But here's an idea--what if that is merely a pretext to cover up the fact that Marlow, nearly redeeming himself with an act of kindness, doesn't want to appear soft and weak to the salts who are listening to his tale?

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Yes, on a purely narrative basis, I agree. On a representational/symbolic basis, that lie represents the lie that civilization lives with, that the holocaust is not possible among civilized people, that darkness is not part of the human condition. By the way, Conrad makes Kurtz a German, and that wasn't by accident. I'll get to that in my final comment that will answer your questions as to why this happens to Kurtz.

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Oates contrasts Conrad's/Marlow's view of Caucasian women to that of the description of Kurtz's native mistress

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Was she Kurtz's mistress? In all my readings of the novel, I'm not sure I ever picked that up. I'll have to check next time.

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"of whom Marlow awkwardly describes as 'barbarous,' 'savage and superb, wild-eyed and magnificent' " and so forth, which, according to Oates, only amount to

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Words piled upon words, suggesting a generalized allegorical figure, a carved wooden sculpture symbolizing African Woman, and not a living breathing individual woman who is supposed to be passionately in love with the dying Kurtz.

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I don't know what to make of that. This is a novel about Europeans, not a novel about Africans. It seems to me that would disrupt his story and themes. Conrad doesn't expand on any African character.

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But for some reason Oates fails to see that in Heart of Darkness, this particular character is one of the few whom Conrad allows to display honest human emotion:

She came abreast of steamer, stood still, and faced us. Her long shadow fell to the water's edge. Her face had a tragic and fierce aspect of wild sorrow and of dumb pain mingled with the fear of some struggling, half-shaped resolve. She stood looking at us without a stir, and like the wilderness itself, with an air of brooding over an inscrutable purpose. A whole minute passed, and then she made a step forward. There was a low jingle, a glint of yellow metal, a sway of fringed draperies, and she stopped as if her heart had failed her. . .She looked at us all as if her life had depended upon the unswerving steadiness of her glance. Suddenly she opened her bared arms and threw them up rigid above her head, as though in an uncontrollable desire to touch the sky. . .She turned away slowly, walked on, following the bank and passed into the bushes to the left. Once only her eyes gleamed back at us in the dusk of the thickets before she disappeared.
In the very next paragraph the "man in patches" confesses that if she had come upon the boat, he would have shot her because of her vehement complaints to Kurtz about the man in patches having taken some "miserable rags he had picked up in the storeroom" --which could be interpreted, perhaps, as her way of defending Kurtz's "turf," so to speak. In any case, this is the behavior of a "living breathing individual woman," not some elaborate symbol.

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That's quite true. That African woman is a wonderful character, and quite strong a woman, which goes against Conrad as misogynist. One wishes Conrad had developed her. I don't know if Conrad felt he had enough insight into the African people to create solid three dimensional characters. Conrad only spent a few months in Africa. This was the extent of his African experience.

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Your final paragraph:


certainly echoes the 19th century feminism of Shaw, whose view of woman, influenced by evolutionary ideas, was a bit idealised but nonetheless on the right track as far as securing the rights of women. I really don't think Conrad was anywhere near a place where he would share Shaw's modern views; however, Oates's characterising him as a misogynist is overly harsh. The point is not every male Caucasian writer of the time was a woman-hater. For instance, James Stephens satirizes a character who is bigoted against females in his witty short story, "The Blind Man," one of the works mentioned in another recent LitNet thread.

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Quite right. I'm glad we agree. :)

"Sexist" and "sexism" are relatively contemporary terms which I assume did not exist during the time Conrad flourished. Maybe it's our 21st mind-set that sees "misogyny" and "sexism" as more or less synonymous.

As to the question whether the native woman displaying her emotions at the end of the story was Kurtz's mistress, I agree with Oates that she was. I came to that conclusion because of the scene in question: her reaction to Kurtz's demise is so dramatic, far beyond that of the other villagers who we can presume certainly are affected by his death --either sad or relieved. What we should take from this relationship is that it's typical of the male upper-class Caucasian at the time: Kurtz sees no "cognitive disconnect" (to use one of our current terms) between keeping an African mistress while at the same time sincerely believing he will one day marry his "Beloved" back home.

This is just another aspect to Conrad's vision; it's not for nothing he's referred to as a "moralist." But his finger-shaking at Kurtz's -- and by extension Colonial Europe's--morality goes beyond the "sexual realm" (a certain contemporary politician's term) to that of an indictment of hypocrisy and sheer corruption that goes through and through the "heart" of this propped-up colonial system.

Not to mention the fact that since Kurtz has succeeded in completely overpowering a village, he's capable of anything. I think the reaction I had to Heart of Darkness is similar to that of most readers after reading it for the first time: the thing you remember are all those heads on the posts.

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Originally Posted by AuntShecky

The unanswered question, of course, is what exactly causes of Kurtz’s madness. Was it the lack of civilization which the jungle with its perils, its insufferable climate, and overgrown
excess, symbolized by Marlow’s frequent references to the stench of rotting hippo meat? Hass greed – his own personal quest for weath as well as that of his capitalist employers-- and –paved the way for overreaching power and cruelty?

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I would say the answer to all those questions is yes. The climate, the freedom to go to excesses, the greed, the quest as it becomes an addiction, and the lack of civilization, or at least Kurtz's civilization all contribute to Kurtz's madness. Conrad has a short story called "Outpost of the Islands" where someone stranded in isolation commits suicide. In fact there are a number of works where Conrad puts a character in isolation. Jim of Lord Jim isolates himself among the natives of the south seas to escape his humiliation. Isolation now that I think of it is central to just about every one of Conrad's works.

The way I look at what happens with Kurtz is two fold. (1) Being removed from civilization, there is no restraining impulse to curb desire. And the desire here is greed. (2) Kurtz is associated with German culture, and I think the allusion is Friedrich Nietzsche, especially Nietzsche's notion of Übermensch, Superman, man over other man in his will to power. Kurtz while in Africa has evolved to the philosophy of the will to power, the philosophy of morality linked to impulse, which as it turns out to be the opposite of the Judeo-Christian world view, despite Conrad being a skeptic religiously. Nietzsche himself called himself an immoralist. Conrad may have been a skeptic on faith, but he was certainly a traditionalist when it came to values. In Kurtz, he creates a character with the brilliance of German culture but freed to carry out his innermost impulses to the morality as he sees fit. What's amazing to me is how anticipatory this was to Hitler, though Hitler wasn't exactly high culture. (And yes, I'm going to claim the side that Nietzsche was a philosophic link to Hitler.)

On a side note, Conrad created lots of characters from all sorts of countries: Italians, Swedes, French, Spanish, Asian, South American, Scott, English of course, eastern European, and so on. And they range in likability, but I don't recall a single positive German character in any of his works. It seems like Conrad goes out of his way to create negative German characters. I can't answer why. Perhaps the rivalry between Britain and Germany at the time might have something to do with that, but I think it went to various philosophies that were coming from Germans in the late 19th century. Perhaps even Marx in addition to Nietzsche.

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Or is Conrad indirectly telling us that insanity is an inevitable symptom of the inevitable found not just in Kurtz but in every man who has ever walked the earth?

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I don't know about inevitable. I think he would say that the right conditions might lead almost anyone to that state. If you looked at just Heart of Darkness, you might say all people, but given I've read an extensive amount of Conrad, I can think of characters he creates who wouldn't fall into that insanity. They all do get different or "weird" in their isolation, but they don't get homicidal. :wink5:

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This, Conrad, is the ultimate human condition, man’s fate. “Destiny” Marlow reveals “My destiny. Droll thing life is–that mysterious arrangement of merciless logic for a futile purpose. The most you can hope from it is some knowledge of yourself–that comes too late–a crop of inextinguishable regrets.”

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That's a great quote from the work. It always reminds me of Shakespeare's Macbeth soliloquy:

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To-morrow, and to-morrow, and to-morrow,
Creeps in this petty pace from day to day,
To the last syllable of recorded time;
And all our yesterdays have lighted fools
The way to dusty death. Out, out, brief candle!
Life's but a walking shadow, a poor player,
That struts and frets his hour upon the stage,
And then is heard no more. It is a tale
Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury,
Signifying nothing.

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Not quite the same thing, but it seems to echo.


With that Aunty, I have now concluded my reaction to your essay. I have probably written here almost everything I've ever thought upon on Heart of Darkness. Hope it was interesting. I don't hold myself to be a Conrad scholar, but there's some insight for readers here to munch upon. :)

I'll always be grateful, Virgil, for all the work, thought, and generosity you've offered us
in regard to this work. Your detailed response is in itself a remarkable piece of scholarship.

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Originally Posted by AuntShecky

I'll always be grateful, Virgil, for all the work, thought, and generosity you've offered us
in regard to this work. Your detailed response is in itself a remarkable piece of scholarship.

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My pleasure Aunty.