Heart of Darkness is the story of English sailor Marlow’s journey towards the center of Africa, and his quest to discover the mysterious Kurtz; as told by Marlow to an unnamed narrator, who relays the tale from the framing device of a ship waiting for the turn of the tide.
Although the distinction between narrator and author should always be considered, Conrad has created an emphatic buffer between himself and the views of Marlow. Whilst Marlow’s observations and deductions are often racist it does not follow that the import of the novella is racist also. But perhaps Conrad’s measured distance gives an idea of how he expected to be received.
The ‘heart of darkness’ to which Marlow repeatedly refers may be interpreted in many ways; the literal darkness of the jungle through which he passes, a metaphorical savagery and lack of civilisation as perceived by European marauders, perhaps even an allusion to the dark skin of the indigenous people.
But this is a book of ambiguities and contrasts. A youthful Marlow, viewing a world map in his childhood, hankers over the biggest, blankest space. He wants to go there. For the reader it is reasonable to assume that this pristine white area is Central Africa, suggesting that darkness is introduced by the advent of the white man.
Enter Kurtz. In the descriptions of the occupations of agents such as Kurtz we are given an unvarnished (but not directly judgemental) picture of the colonial rape of Africa. But it is suggested that Kurtz is a successful pillager because he has succumbed to native corruption. Which is where the novel becomes difficult to justify. Kurtz has implemented his own heart of darkness. Whilst there is no suggestion that the potential for savagery and corruption are not integral to the white man, to all men, there is an implication that it is his exposure to native culture which has acted as a catalyst. And you might want to argue that it his rapacity in the face of colonial lawlessness which leads to his downfall, but the book is more specific than that, hinting at satanic rites.
The only defence which I can make, and I confidently sense Conrad’s intent even as I fail to prove it, is that just as Conrad steps back from Marlow, so must the reader. Marlow does not know Africa, nor does he seek to. He interprets what he sees through his own heart of darkness. And Marlow is a confused man, who contradicts himself and often seems lost.
The role of women in the novel intrigues me. Marlow is offensively dismissive of women (which permits me to empathise at least in theory with Chinua Achebe’s criticisms of the work) and whatever point Conrad may be making is largely lost in my feminist indignation. However, it is women who appear to direct Marlow’s fate. And the contrast between Kurtz’ two women, the European ‘Intended’ and the African non-defined, is striking, if beyond my powers of analysis.
Perhaps Marlow had to be racist to be credible in the barely post-colonial era in which the book was published. His casual dismissal and patronisation of black people does not stretch belief, some of his more amiable pronouncements appear consciously liberalised to garner the sympathies of his listeners, but occasionally an observation seems enlightened far beyond the scope of Marlow’s personal darkness.
‘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 stretch 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 over the sea.’
Conrad tells it how it was, and I think there is evidence that he trusts and hopes that the sensibilities of his readers will lead to humanitarian conclusions. Irony of this kind, undermining racism and perceived colonial superiority by showcasing it, is a fine line to tread. On balance, Conrad appears to carry it off, resulting, necessarily, in a hugely complex and carefully calculated work. Nonetheless, I can see how this would fail to satisfy, and could indeed offend, those most closely concerned.
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A nicely balanced consideration of this important work. I have not read it since my undergraduate days, so I cannot provide very specific or insightful responses. However, I think you admirably avoided Baxter’s owls and have been more than charitable to Conrad. It is difficult to consider the work of someone who may be a product of his time/culture or who may merely portray it.
Chinua Achebe’s Things Fall Apart is a brilliant counterpoint to this also finely crafted work. I like how you acknowledge Achebe without entirely deferring. Part of what makes works such as this great is that they ask more than they answer. Leaving questions open is important as trying to answer them. I think answering them can lock an author into their blindered times.
Very thought provoking review. You’ve gone and made me want to revisit it.
Thanks Kerry.
I hadn’t read any Conrad previously, but fully intend to read more. I think your open questions are a big part of that. Those are the books that leave you wondering, and that makes them memorable.
Achebe’s criticism of Heart of Darkness renders his response both more poignant and more impressive. The novel he wanted didn’t exist so he wrote it himself. The novels are complementary, and they in no way detract from each other. I think if I revisited one I would now have to revisit the other too…
I had no idea that Heart of Darkness had so much to offer, having picked up some negative impressions via the connection with Apocalyspse Now: which I have always refused to watch. Sometimes I can embrace that inner owl!
Hi Sarah
Apropos of Mr Conrad, you might like to take a peek at what’s left of his ship, see
http://hillfamilysoutherndivision.wordpress.com/2009/01/19/marvellous-museums-in-hobart/ and http://anzlitlovers.wordpress.com/2010/01/15/brief-encounters-by-susannah-fullerton/
You’ll need to click on the pictures to enlarge them.
Thanks for the links, Lisa. What a wonderful ship (as it is in the model) and so sad to see it decaying. It must have been an amazing experience to make such a tangible contact with Conrad’s history.
It was. I was just wandering around the museum not interested in anything in particular, and suddenly there it was. No one on the museum staff knew anything much about it, (or, let’s face it, had ever heard of Conrad) but I was beside myself with excitement. Unlike other literary memorabilia that I’ve come across behind glass cabinets, I could actually touch this, and put my hands on the same hatchway that Conrad had had in his hands so many times. I was really surprised that the Tasmanian tourist authorities – who are otherwise so good at promoting their attractions – had almost overlooked this one. For all his flaws, I really like Conrad and admire his writing.
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