Notes on Life and Letters

Joseph Conrad

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pubOne.info thank you for your continued support and wish to present you this new edition. I don't know whether I ought to offer an apology for this collection which has more to do with life than with letters. Its appeal is made to orderly minds. This, to be frank about it, is a process of tidying up, which, from the nature of things, cannot be regarded as premature. The fact is that I wanted to do it myself because of a feeling that had nothing to do with the considerations of worthiness or unworthiness of the small (but unbroken) pieces collected within the covers of this volume. Of course it may be said that I might have taken up a broom and used it without saying anything about it. That, certainly, is one way of tidying up.

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• Publié par: Pub One Info
• Date de parution: 27 septembre 2010
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9782819923466
• Langue: English

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AUTHOR’S NOTE
I don’t know whether I ought to offer an apology forthis collection which has more to do with life than with letters.Its appeal is made to orderly minds. This, to be frank about it, isa process of tidying up, which, from the nature of things, cannotbe regarded as premature. The fact is that I wanted to do it myselfbecause of a feeling that had nothing to do with the considerationsof worthiness or unworthiness of the small (but unbroken) piecescollected within the covers of this volume. Of course it may besaid that I might have taken up a broom and used it without sayinganything about it. That, certainly, is one way of tidying up.
But it would have been too much to have expected meto treat all this matter as removable rubbish. All those things hada place in my life. Whether any of them deserve to have been pickedup and ranged on the shelf— this shelf— I cannot say, and, frankly,I have not allowed my mind to dwell on the question. I was afraidof thinking myself into a mood that would hurt my feelings; forthose pieces of writing, whatever may be the comment on theirdisplay, appertain to the character of the man.
And so here they are, dusted, which was but a decentthing to do, but in no way polished, extending from the year ’98 tothe year ’20, a thin array (for such a stretch of time) of reallyinnocent attitudes: Conrad literary, Conrad political, Conradreminiscent, Conrad controversial. Well, yes! A one-man show— or isit merely the show of one man?
The only thing that will not be found amongst thoseFigures and Things that have passed away, will be Conrad enpantoufles . It is a constitutional inability. Schlafrock undpantoffeln ! Not that! Never! . . . I don’t know whether I dareboast like a certain South American general who used to say that noemergency of war or peace had ever found him “with his boots off”;but I may say that whenever the various periodicals mentioned inthis book called on me to come out and blow the trumpet of personalopinions or strike the pensive lute that speaks of the past, Ialways tried to pull on my boots first. I didn’t want to do it, Godknows! Their Editors, to whom I beg to offer my thanks here, mademe perform mainly by kindness but partly by bribery. Well, yes!Bribery? What can you expect? I never pretended to be better thanthe people in the next street, or even in the same street.
This volume (including these embarrassedintroductory remarks) is as near as I shall ever come to dêshabillé in public; and perhaps it will do something tohelp towards a better vision of the man, if it gives no more than apartial view of a piece of his back, a little dusty (after theprocess of tidying up), a little bowed, and receding from the worldnot because of weariness or misanthropy but for other reasons thatcannot be helped: because the leaves fall, the water flows, theclock ticks with that horrid pitiless solemnity which you must haveobserved in the ticking of the hall clock at home. For reasons likethat. Yes! It recedes. And this was the chance to afford one moreview of it— even to my own eyes.
The section within this volume called Lettersexplains itself, though I do not pretend to say that it justifiesits own existence. It claims nothing in its defence except theright of speech which I believe belongs to everybody outside aTrappist monastery. The part I have ventured, for shortness’ sake,to call Life, may perhaps justify itself by the emotional sincerityof the feelings to which the various papers included under thathead owe their origin. And as they relate to events of whicheveryone has a date, they are in the nature of sign-posts pointingout the direction my thoughts were compelled to take at the variouscross-roads. If anybody detects any sort of consistency in thechoice, this will be only proof positive that wisdom had nothing todo with it. Whether right or wrong, instinct alone is invariable; afact which only adds a deeper shade to its inherent mystery. Theappearance of intellectuality these pieces may present at firstsight is merely the result of the arrangement of words. The logicthat may be found there is only the logic of the language. But Ineed not labour the point. There will be plenty of people sagaciousenough to perceive the absence of all wisdom from these pages. ButI believe sufficiently in human sympathies to imagine that very fewwill question their sincerity. Whatever delusions I may havesuffered from I have had no delusions as to the nature of the factscommented on here. I may have misjudged their import: but that isthe sort of error for which one may expect a certain amount oftoleration.
The only paper of this collection which has neverbeen published before is the Note on the Polish Problem. It waswritten at the request of a friend to be shown privately, and its“Protectorate” idea, sprung from a strong sense of the criticalnature of the situation, was shaped by the actual circumstances ofthe time. The time was about a month before the entrance ofRoumania into the war, and though, honestly, I had seen already theshadow of coming events I could not permit my misgivings to enterinto and destroy the structure of my plan. I still believe thatthere was some sense in it. It may certainly be charged with theappearance of lack of faith and it lays itself open to the throwingof many stones; but my object was practical and I had to considerwarily the preconceived notions of the people to whom it wasimplicitly addressed, and also their unjustifiable hopes. They wereunjustifiable, but who was to tell them that? I mean who was wiseenough and convincing enough to show them the inanity of theirmental attitude? The whole atmosphere was poisoned with visionsthat were not so much false as simply impossible. They were alsothe result of vague and unconfessed fears, and that made theirstrength. For myself, with a very definite dread in my heart, I wascareful not to allude to their character because I did not want theNote to be thrown away unread. And then I had to remember that theimpossible has sometimes the trick of coming to pass to theconfusion of minds and often to the crushing of hearts.
Of the other papers I have nothing special to say.They are what they are, and I am by now too hardened a sinner tofeel ashamed of insignificant indiscretions. And as to theirappearance in this form I claim that indulgence to which allsinners against themselves are entitled.
J. C.
1920.
PART I—LETTERS
BOOKS—1905.
I.
“I have not read this author’s books, and if I haveread them I have forgotten what they were about. ”
These words are reported as having been uttered inour midst not a hundred years ago, publicly, from the seat ofjustice, by a civic magistrate. The words of our municipal rulershave a solemnity and importance far above the words of othermortals, because our municipal rulers more than any other varietyof our governors and masters represent the average wisdom,temperament, sense and virtue of the community. Thisgeneralisation, it ought to be promptly said in the interests ofeternal justice (and recent friendship), does not apply to theUnited States of America. There, if one may believe the long andhelpless indignations of their daily and weekly Press, the majorityof municipal rulers appear to be thieves of a particularlyirrepressible sort. But this by the way. My concern is with astatement issuing from the average temperament and the averagewisdom of a great and wealthy community, and uttered by a civicmagistrate obviously without fear and without reproach.
I confess I am pleased with his temper, which isthat of prudence. “I have not read the books, ” he says, andimmediately he adds, “and if I have read them I have forgotten. ”This is excellent caution. And I like his style: it is unartificialand bears the stamp of manly sincerity. As a reported piece ofprose this declaration is easy to read and not difficult tobelieve. Many books have not been read; still more have beenforgotten. As a piece of civic oratory this declaration isstrikingly effective. Calculated to fall in with the bent of thepopular mind, so familiar with all forms of forgetfulness, it hasalso the power to stir up a subtle emotion while it starts a trainof thought— and what greater force can be expected from humanspeech? But it is in naturalness that this declaration is perfectlydelightful, for there is nothing more natural than for a grave CityFather to forget what the books he has read once— long ago— in hisgiddy youth maybe— were about.
And the books in question are novels, or, at anyrate, were written as novels. I proceed thus cautiously (followingmy illustrious example) because being without fear and desiring toremain as far as possible without reproach, I confess at once thatI have not read them.
I have not; and of the million persons or more whoare said to have read them, I never met one yet with the talent oflucid exposition sufficiently developed to give me a connectedaccount of what they are about. But they are books, part and parcelof humanity, and as such, in their ever increasing, jostlingmultitude, they are worthy of regard, admiration, andcompassion.
Especially of compassion. It has been said a longtime ago that books have their fate. They have, and it is very muchlike the destiny of man. They share with us the great incertitudeof ignominy or glory— of severe justice and senseless persecution—of calumny and misunderstanding— the shame of undeserved success.Of all the inanimate objects, of all men’s creations, books are thenearest to us, for they contain our very thought, our ambitions,our indignations, our illusions, our fidelity to truth, and ourpersistent leaning towards error. But most of all they resemble usin their precarious hold on life. A bridge constructed according tothe rules of the art of bridge-building is certain of a long,honourable and useful career. But a book as good in its way as thebridge may perish obscurely on the very day of its birth. The artof their creato