Heart of Darkness
I’ll keep my post short and sweet—or in this case, sour. Before I dive into the book, let me tell you about the author. Joseph Conrad was orphaned at the meager age of eleven, losing both parents to tuberculosis. He possessed an early knack for geography which translated into a maritime career in adulthood (undoubtedly influencing this novel). Throughout his life, his reticence masked a deep emotional struggle, culminating in a failed suicide attempt at the age of twenty. Albert Camus would not approve.
I can see why people like the book. It has several elements that make it worthwhile: ominous setting, mysterious plot, impressive syntax, ambiguous morality, intriguing narration, etc. Unfortunately, it was boring as hell.
The story goes a little something like this: the main character, Marlow, recounts his experiences working for an ivory trading company stationed in Central Africa. He is generally taken aback by the workers he encounters, finding their greediness distasteful and their attitudes lazy. In the midst of it all, he often hears of an enigmatic Mr. Kurtz—the chief of a station nearby. When Mr. Kurtz falls ill, Marlow and his men must come to the rescue. The journey proves treacherous, as most sea voyages do, and upon arrival, it is apparent that Kurtz has gone mad and is responsible for much of their trouble. Marlow is shocked by how Kurtz has utilized his power as the intrusive white man to manipulate the “savage” natives.
So, what truly constitutes barbarism? The natives, with their allegedly undisciplined, uncivilized culture…or their invaders, with their violent domination? America blushed as I typed that.
What the book boils down to: a semantically well-written commentary on darkness and its dehumanization. The African jungle-- bereft of sunlight. Mankind—bereft of the ability to truly see other humans, i.e. the failure to recognize the natives as individuals worth recognizing. That’s true and all… but hand me any history book and I can come to the same realization. The novel was pretty heavy. Not physically—it’s actually only 84 pages—but the content itself seemed burdensome. Most of the time, the impetus to pick it back up stemmed more from the sentiment that “I should read this because it’s a classic” or “I should read this because it’ll be good for me and I’ll learn something”… and not necessarily because of a genuine desire to read it.
Stories about life at sea also put me to sleep. Unless there is some sort of man-eating water dragon or you throw Johnny Depp with dreadlocks into the mix, I don’t care how the wind is affecting the sails or how the riverbank is shaped. All in all, I give the novel 2 out of 5 flames. I want to give it more because I know all of the symbolism and the metaphors are every English teacher’s wet dream but I can’t pretend to enjoy it just because I respect Conrad’s ability to write a pretty sentence.
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