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jgkeely's review
5.0
Conrad should be known for more than 'Heart of Darkness'. As good a book as it is, it shows only a minute glimpse of what he is capable of. The delicacy, humor, wit, and sheer beauty he shows in this collection marks him as one of the most talented writers of his time, and with one of the most unique voices.
I at once compared him to Chekhov, for he shares with Chekhov a remarkable psychological insight, and hence is capable of constructing characters by merely hinting at notions and moods, or by what he doesn't show us. It is this deft characterization that allows realism to equal the strange vitality of truth, recalling that 'fiction' need not mean 'falsehood'.
But then it shouldn't surprise that Conrad has something reminiscent of Chekhov, as he was born in the Ukraine, and was familiar with the same tradition of stories, and storytellers, as well as the bittersweet, resigned humor of Eastern Europe. But that is not all there is to Conrad.
Along with the patented despair of the great Russian authors, Conrad possesses a lightness, a bawdy, earthy amusement, something that approaches wit, picking up the story and bearing it along, without crudely driving it, like some French oxen. Like Dumas, pere, Conrad is capable of writing an adventure, a story which ties together the improbable, the unfortunate, the miraculous, and the disastrous into something grand and amusing and ridiculous, but not without a touch of humanity and pain. But then, Conrad left the Ukraine at 18 to join the French merchant marine, so it should hardly surprise us that he picked up something there of wit and joie de vivre, even as he picked up the Gallic tongue.
Yet he wrote his stories in English, and his stories were not without an English touch. After all, he bears comparison to Haggard, Stevenson, and Melville, but more than them, Kipling. There is something often small and precise, undaunted about his characters that is British, and he writes of Horror like a Victorian, of the overawing force of the sublime.
But why should that surprise us? After all, he left France to join the English merchant marine, picked up a new language, and sailed up the Congo river in Africa for them, and by this point, he was a man of forty who hadn't written as much as a short story.
In Africa, he experienced a kind of Hell on Earth, a place of true demons, of suffering, of things unimaginable. Like Dante, he descended, ever on, and saw for the first time the terrible depths of the human heart. And he emerged.
Yet never the same, he had gained some insight, or lost some ideal there, and in all the future, could only see the world as a strange, tinted place, a satire, a place where pains and joys were small, yet refused to be overshadowed.
Perhaps it was here that he found his greatest talent: the ability to feel great beauty and great terror in every thing, every man, every sunset, every gust of wind and gesture. Conrad will surprise you. Not merely with his amusing, fraught characters, eccentric, varied stories, and moments of amusement, but with sudden, poignant, insightful visions of the world, visions both unerring and vast.
In a moment and a turn of phrase, Conrad suddenly opens the soul, and a deep sigh flows from the page like the breath of the Earth, a sigh of love that has seen love die, and a thousand times. There is something in his voice, something that is not merely Russian, or French, or English, but which moves between them, and rises above him, and is his voice, and his alone, and forever.
It is not ungainly, or unfamiliar, and yet it is not quite like anything else. It is not merely the English of the unpracticed man, or the knowledgeable foreigner, but of the man who has come to terms with his new language late, and comfortably, and who saw it for the first time with lined eyes.
They meet as two old people meet, already grown, already whole, and become lovers because it is easy, and it is pleasant. The laughs they share, for there is no reason not to, the pains they do not need to share, because they both know them well, already. He does not forget his past loves, nor does he pine for them. He loves now his new love, yet not simply because she is new.
I at once compared him to Chekhov, for he shares with Chekhov a remarkable psychological insight, and hence is capable of constructing characters by merely hinting at notions and moods, or by what he doesn't show us. It is this deft characterization that allows realism to equal the strange vitality of truth, recalling that 'fiction' need not mean 'falsehood'.
But then it shouldn't surprise that Conrad has something reminiscent of Chekhov, as he was born in the Ukraine, and was familiar with the same tradition of stories, and storytellers, as well as the bittersweet, resigned humor of Eastern Europe. But that is not all there is to Conrad.
Along with the patented despair of the great Russian authors, Conrad possesses a lightness, a bawdy, earthy amusement, something that approaches wit, picking up the story and bearing it along, without crudely driving it, like some French oxen. Like Dumas, pere, Conrad is capable of writing an adventure, a story which ties together the improbable, the unfortunate, the miraculous, and the disastrous into something grand and amusing and ridiculous, but not without a touch of humanity and pain. But then, Conrad left the Ukraine at 18 to join the French merchant marine, so it should hardly surprise us that he picked up something there of wit and joie de vivre, even as he picked up the Gallic tongue.
Yet he wrote his stories in English, and his stories were not without an English touch. After all, he bears comparison to Haggard, Stevenson, and Melville, but more than them, Kipling. There is something often small and precise, undaunted about his characters that is British, and he writes of Horror like a Victorian, of the overawing force of the sublime.
But why should that surprise us? After all, he left France to join the English merchant marine, picked up a new language, and sailed up the Congo river in Africa for them, and by this point, he was a man of forty who hadn't written as much as a short story.
In Africa, he experienced a kind of Hell on Earth, a place of true demons, of suffering, of things unimaginable. Like Dante, he descended, ever on, and saw for the first time the terrible depths of the human heart. And he emerged.
Yet never the same, he had gained some insight, or lost some ideal there, and in all the future, could only see the world as a strange, tinted place, a satire, a place where pains and joys were small, yet refused to be overshadowed.
Perhaps it was here that he found his greatest talent: the ability to feel great beauty and great terror in every thing, every man, every sunset, every gust of wind and gesture. Conrad will surprise you. Not merely with his amusing, fraught characters, eccentric, varied stories, and moments of amusement, but with sudden, poignant, insightful visions of the world, visions both unerring and vast.
In a moment and a turn of phrase, Conrad suddenly opens the soul, and a deep sigh flows from the page like the breath of the Earth, a sigh of love that has seen love die, and a thousand times. There is something in his voice, something that is not merely Russian, or French, or English, but which moves between them, and rises above him, and is his voice, and his alone, and forever.
It is not ungainly, or unfamiliar, and yet it is not quite like anything else. It is not merely the English of the unpracticed man, or the knowledgeable foreigner, but of the man who has come to terms with his new language late, and comfortably, and who saw it for the first time with lined eyes.
They meet as two old people meet, already grown, already whole, and become lovers because it is easy, and it is pleasant. The laughs they share, for there is no reason not to, the pains they do not need to share, because they both know them well, already. He does not forget his past loves, nor does he pine for them. He loves now his new love, yet not simply because she is new.
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