Trapped in his own time, he could do no more than write his books. And, after all, they did not eat each other before my face: they had brought along a provision of chaps on the way for a hippo-meat which went rotten and made the mystery of the wilderness stink in my nostrils.
Events in the novel are described by Marlow as inconceivable and inscrutable, making no attempts to make the readers or even the listeners within the novel relate to the events of his life which he considers beyond the grasp of his fellow Europeans.
You lost your way on that river as you would in a desert and butted all day long against shoals trying to find the challenge till you thought yourself bewitched and cut off for ever from everything you had known once—somewhere—far away—in another existence perhaps.The further upstream Marlow gets, the more intense the sense of impending danger, with cryptic warnings and a bloody ambush ratcheting up the tension. Indifferent to French exploitation of North African native workers. Thus, in order to express his experiences and call out the cognitive dissonance Conrad saw in his fellow men upon his return, he experimented with a literary form which was in contrast to the narrative of order and moral integration assumed to apply both to Europe and its colonies. Rather than defining his characters as black and white in the non-literal sense , good or evil, Conrad 2 Ashay Deshpande LE British Modernism introduces them in a purgatory of grey, each a victim of their own contexts, desperations and beliefs. I had never seen these two quarrel in the past, and what they said presented no grounds for anger, but when each repeated his position, anger filled the room. His brother phantom rested its forehead as if overcome with a great weariness; and all about others were scattered in every pose of contorted collapse, as in some picture of a massacre or a pestilence. The cannibals eating hippo meat practice restraint; the Europeans do not. But now they read aloud spontaneously, and their voices were alive, even ringing. Conrad is as stern, unyielding, and pessimistic as Said is right-minded, positive, and banal. They are guilty by definition and by category. This departure from nineteenth century realism does not attempt to conceal any of its flaws of present itself as a controlled and planned story. He had tied a bit of white worsted round his neck—Why? It is the Europeans who have been demoralized. In Africa, everyone gossips about him, envies him, and, with rare exception, loathes him. Having arrived fresh from Europe, Marlow, surrounded by jungle, commands a small steamer travelling up the big river en route to an unknown destiny—death, perhaps.
Mist slowly lifts from thick, dark jungle, revealing a rainbow in the distance; Kurtz, wearing an ivory necklace, gestures to the jungle as he speaks to a magnificent-looking African chief. The middle-aged reader, uneasy with earlier versions of himself, little expects his simulacrum to rise up as a walking ghost.
The example essays in Kibin's library were written by real students for real classes.
But how much do such remarks matter against the overwhelming weight of all the rest—the awful sense of desolation produced by the physical chaos, the death and ravaging cruelty everywhere?
As he was writing, he was taking in news of the crisis over the Panama Canal, an episode of political and military manipulation in which America emerged as a new, wily imperial power.