Heart of Darkness, Joseph Conrad
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Joseph Conrad

Heart of Darkness

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Originally published serially as three-part story, Heart of Darkness is a short but thematically complex novel exploring colonialism, humanity, and what constitutes a savage society. Set in the Congo in Central Africa, the tale is told in the frame of the recollections of one Charles Marlow, a captain of an ivory steamer. Marlow’s search for the mysterious and powerful «first-class agent» Kurtz gives way to a nuanced and powerful commentary on the horrors of colonialism, called by some the most analyzed work at university-level instruction.
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Heart of Darkness, Joseph Conrad
Heart of Darkness, Joseph Conrad
Heart of Darkness, Joseph Conrad
Heart of Darkness, Joseph Conrad
Heart of Darkness, Joseph Conrad
Heart of Darkness, Joseph Conrad
Heart of Darkness, Joseph Conrad

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Serghei Gherghelejiu
Serghei Gherghelejiuje podelio/la utisakпре 2 године

There are a lot of comments about this novel. For me it means a deep dive into the human soul where the true darkness stands.

Erik
Erikje podelio/la utisakпре 9 месеци

There is a kind of writer that deserves to be read carefully. Conrad is one of them because of his aknowledgement of the human soul. But, also, he is a master of the language.

bothaj47
bothaj47je podelio/la utisakпре 2 године
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The real Africa from Leopolds time.

Alexander Afanasov
Alexander Afanasovje citiraoпре 5 месеци
But dark­ness was here yes­ter­day. Imag­ine the feel­ings of a com­man­der of a fine—what d’ye call ’em?—trireme in the Mediter­ranean, or­dered sud­denly to the north; run over­land across the Gauls in a hurry; put in charge of one of these craft the le­gionar­ies—a won­der­ful lot of handy men they must have been, too—used to build, ap­par­ently by the hun­dred, in a month or two, if we may be­lieve what we read. Imag­ine him here—the very end of the world, a sea the colour of lead, a sky the colour of smoke, a kind of ship about as rigid as a con­certina—and go­ing up this river with stores, or or­ders, or what you like. Sand­banks, marshes, forests, sav­ages—pre­cious lit­tle to eat fit for a civ­i­lized man, noth­ing but Thames wa­ter to drink. No Faler­nian wine here, no go­ing ashore. Here and there a mil­i­tary camp lost in a wilder­ness, like a nee­dle in a bun­dle of hay—cold, fog, tem­pests, dis­ease, ex­ile, and death—death skulk­ing in the air, in the wa­ter, in the bush. They must have been dy­ing like flies here. Oh, yes—he did it. Did it very well, too, no doubt, and with­out think­ing much about it ei­ther, ex­cept af­ter­wards to brag of what he had gone through in his time, per­haps. They were men enough to face the dark­ness. And per­haps he was cheered by keep­ing his eye on a chance of pro­mo­tion to the fleet at Ravenna by and by, if he had good friends in Rome and sur­vived the aw­ful cli­mate. Or think of a de­cent young cit­i­zen in a toga—per­haps too much dice, you know—com­ing out here in the train of some pre­fect, or tax-gath­erer, or trader even, to mend his for­tunes. Land in a swamp, march through the woods, and in some in­land post feel the sav­agery, the ut­ter sav­agery, had closed round him—all that mys­te­ri­ous life of the wilder­ness that stirs in the for­est, in the jun­gles, in the hearts of wild men. There’s no ini­ti­a­tion ei­ther into such mys­ter­ies. He has to live in the midst of the in­com­pre­hen­si­ble, which is also de­testable. And it has a fas­ci­na­tion, too, that goes to work upon him. The fas­ci­na­tion of the abom­i­na­tion—you know, imag­ine the grow­ing re­grets, the long­ing to es­cape, the pow­er­less dis­gust, the sur­ren­der, the hate.”
He paused.
“Mind,” he be­gan again, lift­ing one arm from the el­bow, the palm of the hand out­wards, so that, with his legs folded be­fore him, he had the pose of a Bud­dha preach­ing in Euro­pean clothes and with­out a lo­tus-flower—“Mind, none of us would feel ex­actly like this. What saves us is ef­fi­ciency—the de­vo­tion to ef­fi­ciency. But these chaps were not much ac­count, re­ally. They were no colonists; their ad­min­is­tra­tion was merely a squeeze, and noth­ing more, I sus­pect. They were con­querors, and for that you want only brute force—noth­ing to boast of, when you have it, since your strength is just an ac­ci­dent aris­ing from the weak­ness of oth­ers.
Og2352
Og2352je citiraoпре 6 месеци
This sim­ply be­cause I had a no­tion it some­how would be of help to that Kurtz whom at the time I did not see—you un­der­stand. He was just a word for me. I did not see the man in the name any more than you do. Do you see him? Do you see the story? Do you see any­thing? It seems to me I am try­ing to tell you a dream—mak­ing a vain at­tempt, be­cause no re­la­tion of a dream can con­vey the dream-sen­sa­tion, that com­min­gling of ab­sur­dity, sur­prise, and be­wil­der­ment in a tremor of strug­gling re­volt, that no­tion of be­ing cap­tured by the in­cred­i­ble which is of the very essence of dreams. …”
He was silent for a while.
“… No, it is im­pos­si­ble; it is im­pos­si­ble to con­vey the life-sen­sa­tion of any given epoch of one’s ex­is­tence—that which makes its truth, its mean­ing—its sub­tle and pen­e­trat­ing essence. It is im­pos­si­ble. We live, as we dream—alone. …”
Melina Zuñiga
Melina Zuñigaje citiralaпре 7 месеци
Hun­ters for gold or pur­suers of fame, they all had gone out on that stream, bear­ing the sword, and of­ten the torch, mes­sen­gers of the might within the land, bear­ers of a spark from the sa­cred fire.
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