I had started to put
book darts in my
Glass Bead Game when I abruptly ran out. Where were the rest? A search reveals them still tucked into my edition of Conrad's
Heart of Darkness, which reminded me of the whole peck of quotations I'd never gotten around to copying down. These are they.
Marlowe chats to his friends in terms that remind me very much of my relationship to my boon companion, as was, Heldenberg―
I had then, as you remember, just returned to London after a lot of Indian ocean, Pacific, China seas―a regular dose of the East―six years or so, and I was loafing about, hindering you fellows in your work and invading your homes, just as though I had got a heavenly mission to civilize you.
Near the close of my graduate studies he had begun to refer to me as "hopelessly itinerant"―let me tell you, nobody likes to find himself standing on a doorstep with an Israeli duffel bag on one shoulder and the carefully concealed irritation of his friends at the threshold in front of him.
Conrad has an ear for satire. About his early attempts to get a position that will take him into Africa, he complains that
The men said 'My dear fellow,' and did nothing.
In these straits he throws himself on the ministrations of the women―much to his chagrin―and soon finds himself en route to Brussels to present himself to his new employer:
In a very few hours I arrived in a city that always makes me think of a whited sepulchre. Prejudice no doubt.
Ceterum censeo Unionem Europaeam delendam esse. Speaking of wise cynicism in the face of modernity, Marlowe jokes about his interview with the company doctor that
I felt I was becoming scientifically interesting.
I watched Berg's
Wozzeck recently―as of this writing it's available on Youtube in a
fairly nice video production, much to my delight―and am reminded of the doctor in that work as well, also a specimen of that particularly ugly 20th century literary trope, the vile man of reason. Doesn't Alex Ross say that Berg was working out some of his frustrations with Schoenberg in that character? Well, I digress. Do I need to introduce the following? The spooky majesty of Conrad ventriloquizing Marlowe ventriloquizing Kurtz stands on its own. We've all read this before, anyway, so reread, if you like; and if not not.
You should have heard the disinterred body of Mr. Kurtz saying 'My Intended.' You would have perceived directly then how completely she was out of it. And the lofty frontal bone of Mr. Kurtz! They say the hair goes on growing sometimes, but this―ah―specimen, was impressively bald. The wilderness had patted him on the head, and, behold, it was like a ball―an ivory ball; it had caressed him, and―lo!―he had withered; it had taken him, loved him, embraced him, got into his veins, consumed his flesh, and sealed his soul to its own by the inconceivable ceremonies of some devilish initiation. He was its spoiled and pampered favourite. [...] You should have heard him say, 'My ivory.' Oh yes, I heard him. 'My Intended, my ivory, my station, my river, my―' everything belonged to him. It made me hold my breath in expectation of hearing the wilderness burst into a prodigious peal of laughter that would shake the fixed stars in their places. Everything belonged to him―but that was a trifle. The thing was to know what he belonged to, how many powers of darkness claimed him for their own. That was the reflection that made you creepy all over. It was impossible―it was not good for one either―trying to imagine. He had taken a high seat among the devils of the land―I mean literally. You can't understand. how could you?―with solid pavement under your feet, surrounded by kind neighbors ready to cheer you on or to fall on you, stepping delicately between the butcher and the policemand, in the holy terror of scandal and gallows and lunatic asylums―how can you imagine what particular region of the first ages a man's untrammelled feet may take him into by the way of solitude―utter solitude without a policeman―by way of silence―utter silence, where no warning voice of a kind neighbour can be heard whispering of public opinion?
It is magnificence. More, and famously:
All Europe had contributed to the making of Kurtz; and by-and-by I learned that, most appropriately, the International Society for the Suppression of Savage Customs had intrusted him with the making of a report, for its future guidance. And he had written it, too. I've seen it. I've read it. It was eloquent, vibrating with eloquence, but too high-strung, I think. Seventeen pages of close writing he had found time for! But this must have been before his―let us say―nerves, went wrong, and caused him to preside at certain midnight dances ending with unspeakable rites, which―as far as I reluctantly gathered from what I heard at various times―were offered up to him―do you understand?―to Mr. Kurtz himself. But it was a beautiful piece of writing. The opening paragraph, however, in the light of later information, strikes me now as ominous. He began with the argument that we whites, from the point of development we had arrived at, 'must necessarily appeal to them [savages] in the nature of supernatural beings―we approach them with the might as of a deity,' and so on, and so on. 'By the simple exercise of our will we can exert a power for good practically unbounded,' etc. etc. From that point he soared and took me with him. The peroration was magnificent, though difficult to remember, you know. It gave me the notion of an exotic Immensity ruled by an august Benevolence. It made me tingle with enthusiasm. This was the unbounded power of eloquence―of words―of burning noble words. There were no practical hints to interrupt the magic current of phrases, unless a kind of note at the foot of the last page, scrawled evidently much later, in an unsteady hand, may be regarded as the exposition of a method. It was very simple, and at the end of that moving appeal to every altruistic sentiment it blazed at you, luminous and terrifying, like a flash of lightning in a serene sky: 'Exterminate all the brutes!'
Retyping this tonight I'm struck by the virtuoso satire of which Conrad was capable and the calculating, even manipulative intelligence hiding beneath his naturalism―it makes me want to fast-forward past the rending of the temple veil, to one of the Faulkner novels I've been saving for the event of intestinal fortitude. Well, hope springs eternal. Meanwhile, Conrad on Marlowe on a particular kind of character type we've been seeing since the dark ages, if not before, perhaps seen critically for the first time:
The glamor of youth enveloped his particolored rags, his destitution, his loneliness, the essential desolation of his futile wanderings. For months―for years―his life hadn't been worth a day's purchase; and there he was gallantly, thoughtlessly alive, to all appearances indestructible solely by the virtue of his few years and his unreflecting audacity. I was seduced into something like admiration―like envy. Glamor urged him on, glamor kept him unscathed. He surely wanted nothing from the wilderness but space to breathe in and to push on through. His need was to exist, and to move onwards at the greatest possible risk, and with the maximum of privation. If the absolutely pure, uncalculating, unpractical spirit of adventure had ever ruled a human being, it ruled this bepatched youth.
Marlowe is wiser than I am, and as such in his case it's only something
like envy, whereas I'm drinking my dissatisfaction neat. Do we have the strength for more concentrated Kurtz? Of course not. Yet:
And, don't you see, the terror of the position was not in being knocked on the head―though I had a very lively sense of that danger, too―but in this, that I had to deal with a being to whom I could not appeal in the name of anything high or low. I had, even like the niggers, to invoke him―himself―in his own exalted and incredible degradation. There was nothing either above or below him, and I knew it. He had kicked himself loose of the earth. Confound the man! He had kicked the very earth to pieces. he was alone, and I before him did not know whether I stood on the ground or floated in the air.
And more. Is this about our century? Was this prophecy?
"Kurtz discoursed. A voice! a voice! it rang deep to the very last. It survived his strength to hide in the magnificent folds of eloquence the barren darkness of his heart. Oh, he struggled! he struggled! The wastes of his weary brain were haunted by shadowy images now―images of wealth and fame revolving obsequiously round his unextinguishable gift of noble and lofty expression. My Intended, my station, my career, my ideas―these were the subjects for the occasional utterances of elevated sentiments. The shade of the original Kurtz frequented the bedside of the hollow sham, whose fate it was to be buried presently in the mold of primeval earth. But both the diabolic love and the unearthly hate of the mysteries it had penetrated fought for the possession of that soul satiated with primitive emotions, avid of lying fame, of sham distinctions, of all the appearances of success and power.
This could have been written in 1949. One last, here in the mouth of Kurtz' Intended:
"Who was not his friend who had heard him speak once?" she was saying. "He drew men towards him by what was best in them."
I am reminded of Heldenberg.
