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.

Altro libro che ho (colpevolmente) dimenticato in libreria per 40 anni e più - il prezzo dell'edizione (millelire) è criterio certo per la sua datazione.
Accompagnare Marlow nella sua discesa agli inferi attraverso gli afrori della foresta fa sì che le 120 e poco più pagine lascino esausti ed accaldati come un tomo di 1000 pagine. E si stenta a credere che sia stato scritto a fine '800.

Sulla scrittura altri amici hanno scritto cose mirabili, che avrei voluto scivere io ma non ne sarei mai stato in grado. Mi soffermo quindi su un passaggio, circoscritto e collaterale alla storia, praticamente un inciso.

Marlow e carovana si avvicinano all'avamposto dove prenderà l' imbarcazione che condurrà fino a Kurtz: si addentrano nella foresta trovando villaggi completamente disabitatai. Conrad/Marlow fa la seguente succinta riflessione: “la popolazione era filata via da molto tempo. Certo, se una gran quantità di negri misteriosi armati con ogni sorta di armi tremende, repentinamente si avanzasse nella strada tra Deal e Gravesend (nel Kent) e imprigionasse i contadini del posto costringendoli a portare carichi pesanti al suo servizio, penso che ogni casa rustica si svuoterebbe ben presto..."

Quindi Conrad/Marlow si mette nei panni dei colonizzati e fa il semplice (ma fatto sempre di rado e malvolentieri) esercizio di mettersi nei panni dell'altro.

Questo però non ha risparmiato a Conrad l' accusa di essere pur sempre un razzista da parte di un altro grande, Chinua Achebe:

http://www.criticaletteraria.org/2012...

https://www.theguardian.com/books/200...

Ma come ? Conrad ? Il primo ad additare lo schifo del colonialismo accusato di razzismo ? Eppure è così, e leggendo gli articoli non si può dire che gli argomenti di Achebe siano infondati.
E' vero, l'Africa ed i suoi abitanti sono solo una scenografia, comparse senza significato, al massimo presenze bizzarre prive di soggettività. (è anche vero che anche gli altri personaggi europei sono poco più che suppellettili: esistono solo Marlow e Kurtz), però quello che afferma Achebe è indubitabile, l'Africa è un pretesto.

Occorre considerare il capolavoro di Achebe: Things fall apart: è la stessa scena di Cuore di tenebra girata in controcampo: tra quelle figure indistinte di negri che appaiono a Marlow immaginiamoci Okwonkwo che assiste all'arrivo dell'uomo bianco (ed in Things fall apart il colonizzatore che arriva è il più subdolo e pericoloso: il missionario).

Quindi: Conrad è un thoroughgoing racist come afferma Achebe ? Certamente sì, non può non esserlo, è un bianco. Accusare un bianco dell' 800 di essere razzista/colonialista è come accusare un pesce di non saper andare in bicicletta, affermazione tanto vera ma priva di significato.

Però in Cuore di tenebra c'è l'embrione dell'unica cosa da fare quando ci si rapporta al diverso: mettersi nei suoi panni, scambiarsi i ruoli, almeno per un momento. Conrad lo fa in poche righe, di sfuggita, e a me è sembrato tanto, ad Achebe molto poco.

Al di là di questa gretta contabilità, il punto per cui siamo sempre ancora nel Cuore della tenebra e come siamo regrediti da Conrad in poi:

https://video.repubblica.it/cronaca/i...

Ci muoviamo un po' da lì ? Facciamo andare d'accordo Conrad e Achebe ?

Este livro conta a história de marlow indo aos escritórios do Congo Belga em Bruxelas à procura de emprego na África . Após vários dias e passando por imensos processos burocráticos ele consegue esse emprego e vai então para a África. Ao chegar lá ele fica muito surpreso, pois não é nada do que ele imaginara .O processo civilizatòrio Britânico só trazia para a região exploração econômica, tornando péssimas as condições da população local.Pessoas pobres trabalhando em condições miseráveis...pessoas em pele e osso.
Passado a decepção inicial ele fica sabendo que existia um agente do império Britânico que conseguia explorar grandes quantidades de marfim e ainda ser adorado pelos nativos. Seu nome era Kurtz . A partir de então ele começa a sua busca através dos lugares mais sombrios e selvagens à procura de Kurtz , para que ele diga qual era seu segredo. .como conseguia explorar e ao mesmo tempo ser adorado pelos nativos e selvagens Africanos. Um clássico. ..um livro curto mas maravilhoso!

Later edit: I've thought about this book lately and I decided that it deserves more than 2* so 3* it is.

A beautifully written dark ramble.

Do not be fooled by the fact that this book is short. It is actually very dense, hard to read, with long paragraphs and endless metaphors. Even the rare dialog was inserted in a big, bulky paragraph.

I found it strenuous to follow the line of the story. The author was jumping from one idea to the next in the blink of an eye and the prose was so full of pompous words that I was lost among them like in the darkness of the deep, unreal jungle he was describing.

Here's an example:

“It seems to me I am trying to tell you a dream--making a vain attempt, because no relation of a dream can convey the dream-sensation, that commingling of absurdity, surprise, and bewilderment in a tremor of struggling revolt, that notion of being captured by the incredible which is of the very essence of dreams...No, it is impossible; it is impossible to convey the life-sensation of any given epoch of one's existence--that which makes its truth, its meaning--its subtle and penetrating essence. It is impossible. We live, as we dream-alone...”

I could feel the suffocating atmosphere of the book and I understood the main metaphor which is very true. People, no matter of skin's color can become cruel and evil in certain circumstances.

Revisiting The Heart of Darkness


After passing past that Castle of Ego,

Laying siege on the very borders of Mind,

We entered the vast and bristling forests,

Of that strange, strange land, that Id,

Which doth divide the knowing, waking,

From the land of dreaming, unknowing.

But this way is much too hard to follow;

And is harder even to describe to you:

We are more likely here to perish,

Here in these vast, dense hinterlands;

For these woods that we see arrayed,

Has never previously been crossed,

By mortal men or by Gods before,

Except by the Duke, on his missions,

To plunder and to subjugate.



He had sliced a path so wide and true,

For himself and his army vast,

Marking along the trees as he trode,

Deeper and deeper into these woods,

Holding fast to his own marks,

And to the crude compasses of his day,

Wary of the beasts and birds,

And of dark shadows of the serpents,

And the importunities of bugs and bites.

Vexed he was by silence and dark,

But angered more by lonely shrieks.



So we move on in this path of old;

Those old trees that the Duke had marked,

Now but marshy ground to mire our carts,

When will we cross these woods so dark,

And reach the sparkle at the other end?

That river which we truly seek,

That drowned the Duke and freed the Mind:

That river so cool, called Sanity.

The dark masses had begun to congregate. Branches thumping against the glass and iron bars, in rhythm to some obscure, some lost song of the wild. The tendrils of darkness that took birth in the vacuums that the sun's warmth had just forsaken, had started their ascent :first shy, then bold, then complete. And when their majesty was absolute; pieces of the night sky, shining almost silver in the blackness met the pools of shades offered by the oozing earth with a coy surrender.

I opened a window. Just enough to allow the candle to hold it's flame and picked up the first Conrad I would ever read

It was lucky for me. Somehow, the elements had conspired to allow me this singular moment of authentic parallelism that made the transition to the sea faring universe of Heart of Darkness, palpable and real

In the heart of the story, Conrad's work is a treatise into the psychological variables of an innocent, who by design of fate and choice, ends up traversing the 'exotic and savage' wilderness of Africa. It seemed to me that the physical journey might not have been so much real but the beautiful handiwork of a master writer seeking to experiment the delving into the intricate mesh work of a mind's odyssey into his most intimate and savage self. In this respect, the choice of Africa lends an authentic charm to the subject, atleast to the colonial supremacist of the late 19th century with the Industrial Revolution blowing new steam into the proceedings. It was around for time when Europe launched their magnificent campaign to 'civilize' Africa. So, it is quite understandable that the choice of the land was to reinforce in the intended reader's mind the savage convulsions of psychological darkness.

The darkness is beautiful and still. The voyage of Marlow deeper into the heart of the land, via the Congo is, nevertheless, accompanied by some of the most beautiful descriptions of nature. Wild, free and untouched, something that I suppose was intended to lend an aura of fear, I found myself rejoicing in the pristine and sepulcrous land, yet untouched. I bought every word of it, and I ate it.(I wonder what the shrinks will make of that.) And if not for the very repulsive idealization of the supremacists which made towards dehumanizing the natives, that lends such an abhorrent aftertaste to my palate;my love for this piece of work would have been complete.

Heart of Darkness provides us with some very ponderable interesting characters. Two of my favorites : the educated and nomad harlequin surviving in the wild ;an adventurer, a seeker and the second, Mr Kurtz who is larger than life and a Superhuman persona, embodying madness, as is their due. He represents the lofty ideals of the educated invader who has 'ideas' and big ones too! They could not be forsaken and was considered his duty to share with the world. And he was savagery personified. A man who had given up his cultivated persona and had succumbed to sin and ventured into the darkest recesses and ultimately lost his marbles. But he still exercises a control over those that know him, an enigma, the intense magic that gives a sultry call to the journeyman and leads him astray. Marlow becomes his victim. The darkness almost engulfs him, but an act of kindness serves as his salvation.

The darkness belongs to no one. Nor the intended, neither the mistress . It is horror. The horrors! The horrors!

At the Heart of What Matters

It's a long time since I read this novel.
However, its journey into the heart of darkness, not only geographically, but personally, has become one of the dominant themes of western literature and film, and probably music as well.
It might be possible for a book to match Conrad's, but I doubt whether anyone could better it.
"Apocalypse Now" more than does justice to it in the film context, though it obviously had the advantage of visuals not created solely with words on the page.
Conrad was a master of English prose style, even though it was his second language.

After a re-reading, I wrote another review here.

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

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.

Have you ever come across a book that you like, despite its dark and disturbing contents? It's a strange feeling. But Heart of Darkness proves that it is possible. The main contributing factor to this possibility is undoubtedly Conrad's beautiful prose. It is rich, passionate, and dramatic. With his beautiful prose, Conrad exposes various themes, and although I could not fathom all of them fully, I was enchanted by what he wrote (if that makes any sense).

The story is about an adventure that a sailor named Charles Marlow had had when he was working as a captain on a steamboat for an Ivory Trading Company. He narrates his adventure to his fellow sailors on board a ship called "Nellie" while it is anchored on River Thames. Through the adventure of Marlow, Conrad brings out many issues to light: Slavery, civilization, the destruction of nature by human conduct, and above all, human nature.

Out of all these themes, what caught my attention and kept me engaged with this reading is Conrad's psychological presentation of human nature. He exposes the greed, ambition, love for power, and recognition that humans crave, which are well stored in the dark corners of their hearts. Conrad takes the reader through a journey to the dark wilderness in the African region, but at the same time, he takes the reader towards the darkness of the human heart. I'm no literary scholar, but I feel that that is what Conrad was after - the darkness of the human heart in this "civilized" society. Are we civilized after all? That is a question I felt that the author seeks an answer for through and through.

This novella is more of a philosophical account than an adventure story. The underlying message sent is deep and powerful. His beautiful prose and elaborate writing are compensation enough for its dark and disturbing contents.

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.

I read this a long time ago, and then again this weekend, and realised that I remembered maybe 5% of it. It's perhaps not that surprising because the existential meandering dominates the actual events, and many of the those events involve lying around being too hot, too sweaty, and too sick, just waiting. That's unfair - events do unfold, characters are met, unpleasantness witnessed, at at the creshendo, blood is spilled. The pace, however, is slow. Nineteenth century slow. Dickens sprints by comparison. Each moment of emotion and contemplation is picked apart, over-written, beaten into submission with $100 words (inflation adjusted).

Two things save this from being discarded within pages and perhaps (along with academia's love affair and inclusion on ten thousand secondary school English curricula) explain its longevity. Firstly, if you forgive the overblown language that is perhaps a sign of his times more than anything, Conrad has a rare eye for characterisation and description. He 'sees' and manages to share, delivering, when he chooses to, whole people with a handful of lines. Secondly, the heart of the heart... of darkness is a mystery that obsesses the narrator and starts to compel the reader. Like our narrator steaming his way upriver into the unknown, we want to meet Kurtz, to find out what it is about this man that's so extraordinary.

In the end, like anything that is built up and built up again, Kurtz is a let down, but somehow Conrad saves it with the man's last words. Another mystery left for the reader and one that's kept people reading the work for a hundred years.

3.5 stars from me - I can appreciate its worth, but I wasn't enraptured.


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