"Ascoltavo, ascoltavo, attendendo allerta la frase, la parola che mi avrebbe permesso di comprendere l'indefinibile disagio ispirato da quel racconto che sembrava prendere forma senza il bisogno di labbra umane nell'area greve della notte sul fiume."

A bordo di un vaporetto rattoppato, salvato dalle acque placide del grande fiume, tra milioni di alberi e il caldo opprimente, verso la fonte, sempre più a fondo nel cuore delle verdi tenebre, alla ricerca di un' Ombra, alla ricerca del sig. Kurtz.

Nel mentre si parla della debolezza umana che non tradisce mai, sempre pronta a mostrarsi nella sua maschera peggiore. I bianchi conquistatori pronti a succhiare fin nel midollo ogni bene della terra per quel dio silenzioso: il Profitto.

Un viaggio, claustrofobico e carico d'aspettativa ma anche un viaggio interiore alla ricerca di una morale nascosta nel fitto delle tenebre, lì dove l' uomo bianco è giunto a sostituirsi a dio, mostrando senza vergogna il suo cuore di tenebra.

"Che Orrore! Che Orrore!"

Tante le chiavi di lettura e i temi che Conrad propone con una prosa che sembra il travaglio di una lucida e assurda allucinazione. Fonti prese da personali memorie ed esperienze di viaggiatore unite in un' avventura onirica nella giungla dell' Africa nera sul finire del 1800.

Un piacere da leggere per uscirne arricchiti.

--------------------------
"I listened, I listened, waiting alertly for the sentence, the word that would allow me to understand the indefinable discomfort inspired by that story that seemed to take shape without the need for human lips in the heavy area of the night on the river."

On board a patched steamboat, saved from the placid waters of the great river, among millions of trees and the oppressive heat, towards the source, ever deeper into the heart of the green darkness, in search of a shadow, in search of Mr. Kurtz.

Meanwhile, we talk about the human weakness that never betrays, always ready to show itself in its worst mask. The white conquering ready to suck every good of the earth to the marrow for that silent god: Profit.

A journey, claustrophobic and full of expectation but also an inner journey in search of a moral hidden in the thick of darkness, where the white man replaces God. Showing without shame his heart of darkness.

"What a horror! What a horror!"

Many are the keys to interpretation and themes that Conrad proposes with a prose that is a labor of a lucid and absurd hallucination. Sources arising from his personal memories and experiences united in an adventure in the jungle of black Africa at the end of 1800.

A pleasure to read to come out enriched.

Not in Asia & not in innocence was mankind born. Our first primitive homeland was in the African highlands, where we evolved slowly, ever so slowly, on a sky-swept savannah glowing with menace. Those potent words are taken from Robert Ardrey's African Genesis & I have considered them often since initially reading the book while living in Kenya ages ago.


The Heart of Darkness by Jósef Teodor Konrad Nalecz Korzeniowski, better known as Joseph Conrad, represents a masterpiece of what might be termed literary archeology, a deep probing into the nature of the human spirit. It is a much-condemned & frequently misunderstood work that is far more than one man's travel journal into the African interior.

In fact, Conrad made a voyage to Africa, in some ways not unlike the one narrated by Mr. Marlow in the author's brief novel and that journey changed Conrad forever. When Conrad's Marlow embarks on the Nellie from the Thames & out to sea, he...

bears the sword & then the spark from the sacred fire, as ships have done for ages--the dreams of men & the seed of common wealth, the germs of empires & the mystery of the dark places of an unknown earth.

Marlow is a seaman but also a wanderer rather than a plunderer & it is said that he "did not represent his class, sitting on deck like a Buddha in European clothes but without a lotus flower". He overhears some on the ship speak of the "conquest of the earth from those who have a different complexion, to tackle a darkness." At this point, Marlow is just an observer, having been enlisted by a London company but with an imperfect mandate.


The mission turns out to be is a quest to recover ivory for the home office & in the process Marlow is confronted with tales about a seemingly mystical character called Kurtz, a rogue white man who has "gone native", proceeding into the interior while losing sight of his initial mission to engender enormous profit for the home office.

Kurtz is "chief of the inner station" & some suggest that he is "a prodigy, a genius, the emissary of pity & science & progress & devil knows what else". But who is this Mr. Kurtz really, wonders Marlow?

After reaching port & eventually going upriver into the African interior, Marlow smells what is termed "primeval mud in his nostrils, also noticing the high stillness of a primeval forest." Obviously, he has been taken to a place beyond his expectations & asks: "What were we who had strayed in here. Could we handle the dumb thing or would it handle us?"

There are complaints about sulky natives, ivory & lost invoices but much of the search by those on board, referred to as "pilgrims", seems intangible, as they...

penetrated deeper & deeper into the heart of darkness, traveling into the night of first ages. of those ages that are gone, leaving hardly a sign & no memories, causing the earth to seem unearthly, the quest for truth stripped of its cloak of time, in search of Kurtz on a stern-wheeler about to give a last gasp, like watching the flickering of a life.

The imagery surrounding Kurtz is stark & foreboding but it is also engaging, even seductive. The man has killed countless Africans, even posting some heads on posts, while also endeavoring to heal others & occasionally reciting poetry. Apparently, he has had a mesmerizing impact on some of the local Africans, as he has on those on board the boat. In spite of his enigmatic & ruthless behavior, Kurtz seems to have left an indelible impression on everyone who has encountered him. It is said that "you can't judge Kurtz as you would an ordinary man."

The hunt for Kurtz has become other-worldly. There is not infrequent use of the N-word in Conrad's novel and many of the Africans, including a few working on the boat, are reckoned to be cannibals. In the midst of all of this, Marlow declares that he "is trying to account to myself for Mr. Kurtz, not trying to excuse or explain Mr. Kurtz because all Europe contributed to the making of Mr. Kurtz." A fragmentary manual Kurtz has composed seems to confide, "exterminate the brutes".

When the pale, emaciated Kurtz is suddenly seen on shore amidst the beating of tribal drums from the forest, causing "a strange narcotic effect", he appears like an "atrocious phantom." It was like he was "exhaled from the earth". A pent-up frenzy is followed by silence, as the boat's steam-whistle appears to terrify the Africans.

Marlow declares that he was "anxious to deal with this shadow by myself, while remaining loyal to the nightmare of my choice." Removing Kurtz from the interior was like "a satanic ritual", one that left Marlow with the sense of looking into himself.

Kurtz's pursuit into the interior had involved moving forward with the greatest possible risk & with a maximum of privation. But on board, Kurtz appeared as a grimy fragment of another world, the forerunner of change, the conquest of trade, of massacres, of blessings, as he cries out "the horror, the horror!" Then someone intones, Mistah Kurtz, he's dead.

I've read Chinua Achebe's critique of Conrad's brief book & those of others but I contend that when he wrote Heart of Darkness, Conrad employed the interior of Africa as a metaphor, as he attempted to glance into our collective soul in offering this very dismal appraisal into the nature of mankind.

The novel expresses Conrad's deep-seated concern for humanity, far apart from the mistreatment of Africans by King Leopold's Belgian forces in the Congo, among other examples of the arrogant & bloody savagery committed around the globe by supposedly more enlightened people.


What I take all of "the horror" to convey is that the human species has the potential for both high art & social refinement but also descents into incessant wars & extreme bestiality, with the Holocaust as just one example.

As Robert Ardrey, whose words opened my review put it, "We are born of risen apes & not fallen angels, and the apes were born killers besides." But in closing, Ardrey also counseled in a rather more hopeful tone that "we are known among the stars by our poems & not by our corpses."

*Within my review are 2 images of Joseph Conrad + two of the Congo under Belgian occupation. **My edition of Heart of Darkness is an older Signet Classics paperback, copyright 1950, with an interesting introduction by Stanford professor Albert Guerard.

Der inneren Wildnis auf der Spur. Rastlos am Rande der eigenen Psyche, ein sich an die Allegorie eines erzählenden Selbst Klammern.

Inhalt: 5/5 Sterne (innere und äußere Reise an den Rand der eigenen Welt)
Form: 5/5 Sterne (hart, umfassende, anpackende Sprache)
Komposition: 5/5 Sterne (atemlos, dicht, verschränkt, fast zu kurz)
Leseerlebnis: 5/5 Sterne (Literatur als Gedanken- und Gefühlpflug)

Joseph Conrads Novelle mag heutzutage berühmter als Vorlage für Francis Ford Coppolas Film Apokalypse Now sein. Sie selbst aber spielt das aus, was nur literarisch passieren kann, eine lineare, sich zirkulierende Selbstbefragung, die im Erinnern, im sprachlichen Herantasten der psychischen Mythologie der eigenen Jetztzeit auf die Schliche zu kommen versucht:

Das Garn der Seeleute ist von einer rückhaltlosen Einfältigkeit, deren ganzer Sinn in einer aufgeknackten Nußschale liegt. Aber Marlow war nicht typisch (wenn man von seiner Neigung, ein Garn zu spinnen, absieht), und für ihn lag der Sinn einer Begebenheit nicht in dieser eingeschlossen wie der Nußkern, sondern draußen, rings um die Geschichte, die ihn lediglich sichtbar machte, so wie eine Feuersglut einen Dunst sichtbar macht – ähnlich einem jener Schleierhöfe, die mitunter im gespenstischen Licht des Mondscheins sichtbar werden.

Entscheidender bei Conrad bleibt also das Nichtgesagte, das, worum die Erzählung sich dreht, ohne das, was die Erzählung behandelt, mit einem Begriff zu belegen. „Herz der Finsternis“ beschreibt vor allem eine Reise, einen Aufbruchsversuch des Erzählers und Protagonisten Charlie Marlow. Er, gepackt von Idealismus, Begehren, unruhig, zu intensiv, um sich einzurichten, muss in die letzten unbekannten Winkel der Welt reisen, also an den Rand des Bekannten, dort, wo die Karten aufhören – also ein Selbst beginnt, eine Reaktion in der Dunkelheit, die nicht antizipierbar ist:

Er war zu einem Ort der Finsternis geworden. Doch gab es darin vor allem einen Fluß, einen gewaltig großen Fluß, den man auf der Landkarte sehen konnte und der einer riesigen, sich aufringelnden Schlange glich, deren Kopf im Meer, deren Leib über eine weite Fläche hingelagert war und deren Schwanz sich in den Tiefen des Kontinents verlor. Und als ich mir die Landkarte im Schaufenster eines Ladens betrachtete, faszinierte mich der Fluß, wie eine Schlange einen Vogel fasziniert – einen dummen kleinen Vogel.

Was passiert und erzählt wird, lässt sich vordergründig als ambivalente, in sich zerstrittene Kolonisierungsphantasie und Fortschrittskritik verstehen. Die Diktion, die Sprache, das langsame Herantasten und vorsichtige Sich-Nähern an den Kolonialhändler Kurtz in Afrika, dem widerspruchsvollen Helden Marlows, zeigt aber, dass sich hier das Selbst dem Rand seiner Zurechenbarkeit nähert. Hier stellt sich der Kulturmensch Marlow und mit ihm die ganze Zivilisation selbst in Frage:

Marlow verstummte und saß da: abgerückt, undeutlich und schweigend, in der Haltung eines meditierenden Buddha. Eine Weile rührte sich niemand. »Wir haben den Beginn der Ebbe verpaßt«, sagte der Direktor plötzlich. Ich hob den Kopf. Die Flußmündung war von einer schwarzen Wolken- wand verhängt, und die ruhige Wasserstraße, die bis an die äußersten Grenzen der Erde führt, strömte düster unter einem bewölkten Himmel dahin […]

Wenige Zeilen reichen nicht, den Reichtum des Textes einzufangen, die vielen Neben- und Hauptstränge dieser kurzen Novelle zu rekapitulieren. Hier spricht ein Erzähler aus der Fülle seiner Erfahrung und seines ungeminderten Empfindens. Wie auf hoher See im Sturm packt der Erzähler seine Zuhörer, die atemlos zuhören oder lesen, wie es jemand wagt, immer weiter hinaus, immer tiefer hinein zu fahren. Mit Joseph Conrad lassen sich wenige bruchlos vergleichen. Einer wäre Hermann Broch und sein „Der Tod des Vergil“, ein anderer Vergil selbst, vor allem mit seinem „Vergil“ in der Christian Ludwig Neuffer-Übersetzung.

I still don't know what I read here.

I finished this book with one sort-of word spinning around in my head... "eh?"

I read the whole book. Every page, every sentence, every word. And I couldn't tell you what it was about. I think I must have read more challenging books than this - Ulysses, Swann's Way, etc. - but none has left me so thoroughly clueless.

کتابهای کسل کننده کدام‌ند: بهشت گمشده و کمدی الهی

میلتون حالم را بهم می‌زند دانته هم. این را تنها من نمی‌گویم بلکه خود شیطان هم گفته. آری این موجود که می‌گویند هزاران سال جد و آباد هرچه حوصله است را در آورده، از خواندن این کتاب‌ها تا حال استفراغ پیش رفته. خود او را با اجازه جرج برنارد شاو از کتاب دون ژوان در جهنم احضار می‌کنم

شیطان: از فکر مرگ تصورشان به درخشش می آید، نیروی‌شان اوج می گیرد، این آدم‌ها آی که شیفته مرگ‌اند. و هرچه وحشتناکتر باشد بیشتر ازش کیف می‌برند. جهنم جائی است بالاتر از قوه فهم‌شان. مفهوم جهنم را بیشتر از دو نفر گرفته‌اند که احمق ترین احمق های روزگار بوده‌اند، یکی ایتالیایی و دیگری انگلیسی: دانته و میلتون. ایتالیایی جهنم را جای گل و شل و یخ و چرک و آتش و افعی های زهردار می‌دانست از سر تا ته شکنجه.اما انگلیسی
می‌گفت مرا به ضرب توپ و باروت از بهشت بیرون کرده‌اند- آن هم جنگ و خون و شکنجه. چه مهملات دیگری گفته، من خبر ندارم زیرا همه‌اش توی یک شعر خیلی دراز است که نه من و نه هیچ کس دیگر هیچوقت نتوانسته تمامش را بخواند


برخی از کتابخوران بر این باورند که"دل تاریکی" را هم باید به لیست بالا اضافه کرد. بنده هم موافقم و هم مخالف. شیطان ولی دارد داد می‌زند:«هیچ "کتاب سفارشی"ئی به کسالت دو کتاب بالا نمی‌رسد. شما را به خدایانی که می‌پرستید قلم کنراد را به گند نکشید. هیچ کتاب کوتاهی به اندازه "دل تاریکی" نتوانسته به این سادگی لب مطلب را به انسان‌های احمق برساند. بی هیچ عذر و بهانه‌ای آن‌را باید جزو شاهکارها دانست.» آری او از این کتاب خوشش می‌آید. دلیلش را خواهم گفت. البته این کتاب هم کسل کننده است و باید هم باشد. چون از لحاظ ساختاری از دو کتاب بالا و چند افسانه‌ی شبیه به آن تقلید کرده است. تا بهتر بتواند تصویر جهنم و سفر به آن را در ناخودآگاه ما زنده کند. اما بی‌تعارف حق را به طرف شیطان می‌دهم زیرا با اینکه این کتاب را با کسالت بسیار خواندم و چند ماهی طول کشید اما نمی‌توانستم قیدش را بزنم. در حقیقت فضای این کتاب باید هم تاریک باشد مگر ما انسان‌ها چه روشنی به این دنیا دادیم که باید انتظار داشته باشیم این جهان ما را با آغوش باز بپذیرد؟

ـ همین چندروز پیش مردی را سوار کردم که توی راه خودش را حلق‌آویز کرد
ـ خودش را حلق‌آویز کرد! تو را به خدا، آخر چرا؟
ـ که می‌داند؟ شاید خورشید، شاید همین سرزمین، فوق تحملش بود

حقیقت ساده این است که این جهان جهنم شده و آن را نه شیطان که خود انسان ساخته. کلی اتهام به شیطانِ بدبخت بستیم اما از ما پلیدتر کیست؟ تا خود را قویتر از دیگری ببینم می‌رویم پدرش را در می‌آوریم. مگر اروپاییان متمدن همین بلا را سر آفریقاییان نیاوردند؟ چه جنایت‌هایی که نکرده‌اند این نژاد سفید و برتر!!؟؟

آنها فاتح بودند و تنها چیزی که برای فتح لازم است، قدرت حیوانی است. کسی هم که چنین قدرتی داشته باشد، جای نازیدن ندارد، چون قدرتش عارضه‌ای است که از ضعف دیگران ناشی شده است

کنراد در این کتاب غیر مستقیم از شیطان رفع اتهام کرده است. شیطان برای او بلند می‌شود و برایش دست می‌زند. بسیار شاد است که از او اعاده حیثیت ‌شده. او هرچه بود ولی دروغگو نبود و حاضر هم نشد ریاکارانه سجده کند. واقعا چه کسی برای چنین گندویی سجده می‌برد؟
آری ما همان قبری سفیدیم که مسیح می‌گفت رنگ و روی سپیدش، پلیدی و پستی و مرگ درونش را پنهان کرده

از دروغ بیزارم. دلیلش هم این نیست که من از شما روراست‌تر باشم. دلیلش این است که دروغ هراسانم می‌کند، همین و بس. ته رنگی از مرگ و طعمی از فنا در دروغ هست، همان چیزی که می‌خواهم از یاد ببرم. درمانده‌ام می‌کند، همان بلایی که از گاز زدن چیز گندیده‌ای بر سر آدم می‌آید

"Mistah Kurtz---he dead". The most chilling and prophetic words ever written on European colonialism and the death of Old Europe, 1914-present.

Many people seem to think that this story is just about racism, but that is missing the main point. It is true that much of Conrad's fiction seems racist in tone, but one must take that from whence it comes; he was writing at a time when European Colonialism, (and sadly racism too) was in full swing. It is of course inevitable that writers will reflect some of the mores of their era, and also that some writers will examine the prevailing mores and comment on them.

However, the inner message of the story transcends dealing with just purely the manifestation of racism and colonial exploitation, although such exploitation does of course also play a role in the density of ideas, and, on the surface, forms the main theme of this novel.

But the inner, integral theme has to do with the more transcendental issue of how wordly power corrupts the holder thereof; about the inner boundaries set by conscience, and the comfort it brings to remain within those boundaries. Conversely, what happens to your psyche when one crosses these boundaries and enters an area beyond what you were brought up to believe fell within acceptable behaviour?

I see Conrad exploring the territory beyond those boundaries, about what happens when an individual crosses the boundaries set by conscience and social conditioning just because he finds himself in circumstances where he can cross these boundaries.

Parrallels for such circumstances can be seen in the excesses certain Roman emperors indulged in, simply because they had the power to. They held sway over the life or death of countless individuals, and many of them indulged in this power to excess.

However, Conrad uses a fresh setting in which to explore the issue, and it is a setting that is more intimate and personal, and just as disturbing.

Me ha parecido una novela excepcional.

"El corazón de las tinieblas" es una historia ambientada en el corazón de África en época del colonialismo británico. Un narrador anónimo, sentado en la cubierta de un barco en el rio Támesis junto a unos amigos mientras esperan que la marea les permita zarpar, escucha a Marlow narrar la aventura que vivió en África.

Marlow es, y ha sido siempre, un soñador, un aventurero deseoso de explorar nuevos territorios. Aparece como un hombre íntegro, independiente en sus acciones y en sus ideas. A lo largo de la historia va demostrando su valía, y aunque intenta mantenerse firme en sus convicciones y en su forma de ser, la misma oscuridad que envuelve la selva va envolviendo su propio corazón.

Aunque hay otros personajes secundarios que aparecen, el más importante es Kurtz. Él parece representar el poder del hombre blanco sobre África; un poder que oprime y atrae al mismo tiempo. Los nativos lo ven como a un dios, y como a tal lo veneran; sus congéneres lo admiran y lo envidian. Él se convertirá primero en un deber para Marlow -cuando tiene que ir a recogerlo a su cabaña, en las profundidades de la selva, a causa de su enfermedad- y luego en una obsesión.

El viaje que emprenderá a través del rio en un barco de vapor, estará lleno de peligros, pero además, se volverá una escuela de aprendizaje para el protagonista. Descubrirá el corazón de la selva, amenazadora, terrible, y el corazón del hombre. Las tinieblas que envuelven las márgenes del gran rio, van envolviendo poco a poco también su mente y su corazón.

La narración es fluida y amena, con pocos diálogos, y unas descripciones extraordinarias tanto de los paisajes y escenarios externos como del panorama interior de los personajes. Como muestra, un botón: "El viejo río reposaba tranquilo, en toda su anchura, a la caída del día, después de siglos de buenos servicios prestados a la raza que poblaba sus márgenes, con la tranquila dignidad de quien sabe que constituye un camino que lleva a los más remotos lugares de la tierra".

Recomiendo esta lectura, especialmente a los amantes de los clásicos.

L'ORRORE



Conrad arrivò nel Congo nel 1890 come tanti altri europei alla ricerca di un lavoro, di un’occasione di crescita economica e professionale, attratto dalle panzane che il re del Belgio, Leopoldo II, era riuscito a spacciare per verità, e cioè che in quella (immensa) parte dell’Africa i bianchi stessero cercando di contrastare e arrestare il commercio degli schiavi condotto dagli “arabi”.


Arabi mercanti di schiavi neri, principalmente nell’Africa dell’Est, ma non solo.

Conrad voleva diventare capitano di marina e sperava che l’esperienza africana avrebbe comportato anche il raggiungimento di quel grado militare.

Si trovò davanti una realtà ben diversa da quella che si aspettava: i bianchi in Congo era schiavisti come e più degli “arabi” – ignoravano il rispetto dei più elementari diritti umani – trattavano i locali come materia prima, forza lavoro, bestie da soma – erano crudeli, rapaci, volgari, prepotenti, accecati dal loro potere, violenti, stupratori, assassini, torturatori.


Mozzare mani e piedi era pratica punitiva frequente.

In realtà erano molto di più, erano autentici genocidari: si calcola che tra il 1890 e il 1905, sempre sotto il dominio belga, la popolazione del Congo si sia ridotta di circa 8/10 milioni di persone. Tutte morte: in nome della “civiltà”, della conquista – tutte morte in nome dell’avorio e della gomma.

Conrad rimase colpito e stordito, e da qui è nato questo magnifico libro, probabilmente il romanzo breve in lingua inglese più tradotto e ristampato.


Il colonello Kurtz impersonato da Marlon Brando.

Marlow è l’alter ego dello stesso Conrad che risalì il fiume Congo – e Kurtz impersona alcuni dei peggiori servitori del Belgio, non necessariamente nati in quel paese, tutti passati alla storia per la crudeltà e il numero di morti (tale Léon Rom usava adornare il suo giardino con le teste degli africani decapitati per punizione conficcate in paletti proprio come nel libro fa Kurtz).
Cuore di tenebra è prima di tutto questo: un atto d’accusa del genocidio che i belgi hanno commesso in Congo.
Poi, col tempo, è diventato un inno contro la violenza umana in generale, contro l’imperialismo (vedi l’interpretazione datane da Coppola in “Apocalypse Now”).


Arbasino disse che alla fine del film di Coppola chiunque avrebbe capito che la guerra è un magnifico sballo. Nonostante la deliziosa ironia del grande di Voghera, “Apocalypse Now” rimane un capolavoro.

Ma Conrad all’imperialismo credeva, purché di marca britannica, fino al punto di investire i suoi risparmi in una miniera d’oro vicino a Johannesburg (quindi, sotto controllo inglese – l’imperialismo inglese andava benissimo, era sinonimo di civiltà e progresso).
In fondo in queste pagine i personaggi di colore non fanno una gran figura, più che parlare, cantano, grugniscono, emettono suoni.
In fondo il razzismo vittoriano (quindi di stampo inglese) in queste pagine si sente eccome.

Kurtz è un magnifico villain: non è solo un assassino e torturatore, ma anche un intellettuale che si diletta di pittura, di poesia, di giornalismo, di teoria e pensiero (Sterminate tutti questi bruti!), confermando con penna e inchiostro la conquista compiuta con fucile e mitragliatore.


Cuore di tenebra.

“Anything approaching the change that came over his features I have never seen before, and hope never to see again. It was as though a veil had been rent. I saw on that furry visage the expression of somber pride, of ruthless power, of craven terror — of an intense and hopeless despair. He cried in a whisper at some image, at some vision—he cried out twice, a cry that was no more than a breath—

“‘The honey! The honey!’

“I blew the candle out and left the cabin. Tigger and Eeyore were dining in the messroom, and I took my place opposite Christopher Robin, who lifted his eyes to give me a questioning glance, which I successfully ignored. He leaned back, serene, with that peculiar smile of his sealing the unexpressed depths of his meanness. A continuous shower of small flies streamed upon the lamp, upon the cloth, upon our hands and faces. Suddenly the manager's boy put his insolent black head in the doorway, and said in a tone of scathing contempt:

“‘Winnie Pooh - he dead.’"

When I decided to do a classic a month this year, I hoped the classics would live up to their status as timeless, admirable, and excellent works of art, but was ambivalent that this would be so. I figured I'd get some good, some not-so-good. Thus far this year though, I have had all gems, books I loved and am thankful to have read. Well, my run of luck ran out with September's selection. UGH!!

Joseph Conrad's The Heart of Darkness is considered by many to be his greatest work. I had read that before choosing the book. I wish I'd also read the assessment of Nigerian novelist Chinua Achebe. He described The Heart of Darkness "as "an offensive and deplorable book" that de-humanised Africans. That is putting it lightly. I realise that attitudes and society were much different in the 1800s when this book was written and so I tried to be lenient. However, racism is not deserving of leniency. It is despicable in any time and place and I found this book to be disgusting, hateful and vile. It is fit for the rubbish bin. It does not deserve its place as a classic, but as representing a huge chunk of history white people should be most ashamed of.

I recommend this piece of shit to no one. It has not one redeeming quality. It is boring as well as hateful.


(September 2019 classic of the month)

Nothing less than five stars, indeed. How could I have ignored this extraordinary literary work for so many years is something that I am still trying to explain in vain.

'Heart of Darkness' is, at one level, essentially about the damage, the senseless destruction that imperialism leaves on the map of the world and on the soul of the human conscience. More than any other brilliant parable about just how systematically, almost cold-bloodedly, some of us, claiming to be a 'higher' or 'superior' race, have rendered those deemed 'inferior' and 'weaker' to us, because of their adherence to tradition or even the colour of their skin or the alien sound of their tongue.

Regardless of what most post-colonial thinkers would opine of Conrad's haunting, utterly bleak and nightmarish yet absorbing portrait of the Congo as an abode of bewildering darkness, one should always remember that the writer's anger and disgust was aimed not at Congo or Africa but rather at the petty, self-serving and utterly unscrupulous prospectors and imperialists devoted to what Kipling called 'the White Man's Burden'; it is these tenacious, even venal men from the so-called civilised world of "light" who are the monsters in this narrative, overshadowed by the greatest monster of them all, the elusive, enigmatic and ultimately extraordinary amoral Kurtz, who also inspired an unforgettable character on the screen but more of that later...

And thus, Conrad's brave narrative risk, of taking the bones of what would have been, in the hands of H. Rider Haggard, a ripping colonial Boy's Own Yarn, complete with casual racial stereotypes, and then fleshing them with a sobering meditation on the futility of the relentless and almost savage hunger of the civilised, aristocratic and bourgeoise elite to seize and conquer the inheritance of even Mother Nature to serve their ends, makes 'Heart Of Darkness' so well ahead of its time.

This was a kind of topical sensibility that was still not found in most novels of that time; the blunt, almost nihilistic yet profoundly poetic anger with which the writer reveals the inconvenient realities of the quest of imperialism, without a shred of glorification, is nothing short of admirable. Some of our most prescient writers and commentators like Graham Greene, George Orwell, John Le Carre, Paul Theroux and others would take a leaf from Conrad's astute and utterly objective template. Talk about ground-breaking literature.

Then, of course, there is the language, flowing yet heart-rending, graceful yet gritty and unadorned, relentless and yet elegantly economical. In just a little more than a hundred pages, the writer presents us not only an elaborately spun narrative of impending catharsis arriving after a particularly disillusioning odyssey into the very dark core of the truth of colonialism but also his moral and ethical arguments in concise, crystal-clear fashion. This is a novel to discover and then to rediscover in all its lithe, supple and almost brittle beauty. The voice of Marlow, as the narrator and bewildered observer of this darkness, is unforgettable in its haunting, almost elegiac intensity. And true to his enigmatic essence hinted early on, Kurtz leaves an unsettling memory in the reader's mind. And I don't really understand what those people are talking about, when they complain about it being boring or inexplicable.

I write this review in a frenzy of energy, while listening to 'The End' from The Doors. Indeed, that is to relive the lingering haze of darkness and dystopia that this novel produced for me and also to doff my hat at Francis Ford Coppola's 'Apocalypse Now', perhaps the truest and most resonant adaptation of Conrad's novel that one could have asked for. The era and milieu were drastically different, the sordid backyard of the excesses of the ivory trade are replaced by the senseless and equally self-serving fight for democracy perpetuated by America in Vietnam that backfired in catastrophic ways.

If anything, the film only sharpens Conrad's everlasting and always prescient lament of how an entire nation and the entire consciousness of the human soul, capable of goodness and generous initiative, can be crippled and corrupted respectively in this lust for power and global superiority. These were the same demons that drove the old world colonialists and their colonies to their doom as well. And today, they are driving bogus democracies and military states on their gung-ho quest to do ' good' when they would instead do better to solve their own problems and redeem their own failings first.

Essential reading at all costs, especially in today's troubling times. Thank you,  Matthew Appleton, for recommending me this masterpiece before it was too late to discover it.