Heart of Darkness - Joseph Conrad

I believe I have read this story four times total and in each the context was significantly different and my experience changed significantly as well. Oddly enough, I think each time that I have read the story I have done so in a different volume as well so this posting will be much more oriented toward the story than the physical object.

Each of the volumes in this picture correspond, from left to right, to each of my four readings below.

For anyone that doesn't know, Conrad's "Heart of Darkness" is an embedded narrative told by a character named Marlow who, during the height of British Imperialism, was sent up the Congo river in search of a London trading company's most profitable, but also most disturbed agent. As Marlow travels slowly up the river in his steamboat, continuously contemplating the white man's intended (but failed) efficacy on the African continent, he discovers more and more that, as he approaches Kurtz (the agent) he is departing more and more from what is considered civilized and is instead plunging into the savage and eponymous Heart of Darkness, a philosophy entity practically embodied in the powerful and simultaneously overwhelmed existence of Kurtz.

1. Oddly enough, my first ever experience with Heart of Darkness was by accident. My freshman year of college Dr. Reynolds had put Heart of Darkness on her syllabus for her World Civilizations II class. It seemed an odd choice for a History class but I went with it. When it came time to read the book for class, I sped through its entirety on a Sunday afternoon only to discover that, amidst her endless powerpoints Dr. Reynolds had forgotten to leave time to discuss Heart of Darkness (I might mention that she was by far one of the worst professors I have ever had. Don't use powerpoint, kids; every time you do a kitten is murdered). It is hard to remember my first response to Heart of Darkness since the entire event remains tinged with frustration at having read something that wouldn't be discussed in class (or even end up on the final).

2. The second time I read Heart of Darkness was significantly more relaxing. It was my semester in London and Conrad's work was a part of my British Short Fiction class with Dr. Carl Winderl. For most of the semester we had one of the most tranquil locations to meet; with only six or so students we would often gather around the garden terrace in the backyard of our Kensington hostel. Somehow here I began to see the significance of Marlow's gradual journey into 'darkest Africa' though I had not yet learned to put it into context (although a visit to the British Museum later that semester undoubtedly gave me a unique glimpse into Britain's persistent celebration of their own imperial age).

3. My third reading was the summer after graduation from college when I was studying for the GRE English Subject Test. If you do not know, studying for this test is an entirely futile endeavor unless you are somehow capable of matriculating every key work from all of Literature and synthesizing it into the format of an objective test (or if you are Harold Bloom). You will find, however, that as you inevitably embark on this futile exercise you will find that you come upon works of literature that you are happy, if not exhilarated to read once again. This time, I was not reading Heart of Darkness for any particular goal but to really enter into the world that Conrad paints; I even found myself becoming more and more immersed into the subtle yet powerful character of Kurtz and discovering what it meant, psychologically, to approach something that is primordial and savage and still attempt to maintain your supposedly civilized humanity. This is really what Conrad wrote about. Of course the book carries the dense overtones of the ugly side of British Imperialism and even earns a place as a transitional work that heralds the 'modern' age of literature. But it also represents something long buried in the dark past of humanity, something that we like to ignore and forget.

4. Finally, the reason that I have decided to discuss Heart of Darkness today is because I have just finished teaching it for the first time. I am confident that I have done a much better job than Dr. Reynolds and I hope that I have come close to Dr. Winderl's endeavor. My British Literature class is quite small, only six students, and as a result our discussions are often quite interesting and significantly more productive than a larger class might be (as seems to be the case with small classes). I did my best, of course, to communicate something of my experience with Conrad's work. Hopefully the next few times my students read this story (which I hope they do). They can grow with it as I have.


As a piece of literature Heart of Darkness holds a unique position in my mind. I wouldn't begin to say that it is the best piece of literature that I have ever read. It doesn't carry the same kinds of universals that we sometimes expect from really great literature nor are its characters as dynamic and interesting as some from more prominent works. But whenever someone asks me which book is most worth reading, Heart of Darkness is always at the top of my list. Perhaps because I feel that people need their psychologies and even their moralities to be challenged. Conrad does both of these things. He erases our notions of moral justification and, through the enigmatic Kurtz, seen through the eyes of a curious Marlow, reveals the embedded darkness, the primordial savageness within each of us.

England

I get the impression that a great many people find it confusing that anyone would spend their time studying the literature of the past and as a result I feel a need to work this inclination out in prose.
English as a discipline is already in a weird position to modern-minded people. Most folks see science as the way of the future ans wonder why anyone in their right mind would want to spend their time analyzing what they consider simply a glamorized form of escapism (I will save my rant on this particular brand of ignorance for another day). So when I tell people that I study the literature of the middle ages I get smiles and nods that bear the subtext of "why the hell would anyone do that." So, rather than try to convince you WHY it is worthwhile, I think it may be best to take a less defensive stance and simply explain my reasons.
One of my earliest literary memories was watching a pirated (thanks Dad) VHS version of the animated film The Hobbit. In my timeline the film had come first but I very quickly found the tattered copy that my parents owned from before I existed and tore through it. What I found in those old pages was a very different story than I had seen in the film. There was so much more happening in the book than the film apparently had time for. Yet, unlike so many malcontented Twilight and Harry Potter fans (there is another rant in here somewhere) I still loved the movie version. In fact I believe that this may have been what inspire my entire literary career in a weird way. In seeing the comparison of film and book and knowing which had been created first I felt a need to understand "the origins of the myth." Mind you, I was NOT seeking to compare the two and discover which was better (*ahem* Twilight/Potter fans) but to simply comprehend the transmission of a tale from one medium to the next over time.
Only in knowing one's origins can one truly see one's present. It is my belief that this philosophy rings most true with the cultural conception of language and so in college I found myself enthralled with Shakespeare. His language seemed so much older, more formal, more glorified than our boorish, modern American vernacular. Yet even in Shakespeare (who wrote in what we call Early Modern English, NOT Old English) there were echoes of history waiting to be discovered, origins to be traced further back than even The Bard knew in his time. I'm fairly certain that this is why I ended up so focused on medieval literature. The Middle Ages were a time when those who spoke English were only beginning to become aware of the significance of their speech and to record it in ways that established the structure of an entire cultural identity that is still standing today, albeit morphed and mutated into something so very different.
Sometimes I look at the modern world and this fervent gusto for progress and looking toward the future but it concerns me. While so many Americans are still enraptured with the concept of The Frontier and this exaggerated desire to tread the untrodden paths (a mindset that carried us all the way to the Pacific Coast, where we stopped with nowhere else to go but up, into the starts). I, on the other hand, feel myself called to be a curator of the past.
This morning I was looking at photographs of Skara Brae and thinking about the fact that so many people have come and gone through such a place, almost all of which are long dead, but despite the fact that these places were discovered long ago and offer very little to that modern drive for "progress" these are the places I most want to be and truly hope that I am capable of imparting some of this same desire to future generations if for nothing else than to help humanity remember where it came from so that it may better judge where it is going.

Book Buyback

At the beginning of the semester I had a short conversation with a student about textbooks. My college has a two-semester requirement for its freshman writing courses and uses the same book for both. Unfortunately this means that a lot of foolish freshmen sell their books back to the bookstore after the first semester only to rebuy it again in the spring at full-price.
I had run into this former student in the hall and had mentioned this phenomenon.
"I guess I'm lucky that I didn't sell my book back" she said.
"Well, if you think about it" I replied "even in a composition textbook there are a lot of essays that are worth re-reading"
She thought about this for a moment and replied, "I guess you're right. There are some good essays in there."
I then proceeded to share my philosophy on textbooks: "I'll admit that I've sold most of my general ed. textbooks back myself, but I've never gotten rid of an English or history textbook or at least one that contained any kind of literature. That stuff is timeless."
"You're right. I think I'll hold on to mine too. Thanks Mr. Eastin."
It was a rewarding exchange but it highlighted something funny that is apparently not nearly as common sense as I would hope. I understand that most college students are poor and an extra wad of cash for end-of-semester parties is nice. But the thing is, that small and usually pathetic amount of cash (pathetic, often because of the piddling prices that most bookstores offer) is entirely visceral. It may be because I am a Literature-person by nature but I cannot conceive why anyone would want to dispose of a Norton Anthology so carelessly. Is twenty bucks really worth losing some of the most significant ideas of all time? These anthologies attempt to capture what it is to be either British, American, or even a citizen of the World as understood through literature. Isn't there something empowering about simply having this book on your shelves, even if that same shelf is populated with soccer trophies, Twilight paperbacks, or Economics textbooks?
I can only hope that this readiness to dispose of this wealth of knowledge is a matter of foolish youth and that these same kids will one day realize what they have lost and possibly reacquire it through Kindle or one of Barnes and Noble's budget editions...but I doubt it.

Christmas Plunder

I've been saving this post for quite some time, mostly because its taken me far too long to decide what to do with my Borders gift cards and twice that amount of time to receive everything in the mail. But I present to you my winnings from this past Christmas's gift fest:

I know the picture is bad but the books are as follows (left to right, top to bottom):
Willim Caxton and English Literary Culture by N.F. Blake (been wanting this one for quite some time)
The Western Canon: The books and School of the ages by Harold Bloom
Tales from the Perilous Realm by J.R.R. Tolkien (a nice new collection that I didn't even know existed until I unwrapped this gift from my mum)
A Grief Observed by C.S. Lewis
The Book of Merlyn by T.H. White
Sir Gawain and the Green Knght translated by Burton Raffel (a new translation to me. should be interesting)
Hamlet by William Shakespeare (this was a sentimental gift from my mum since I'm teaching it for the first time this semester)
Holy Blood, Holy Grail by Michael Baigent, Richard Leigh, and Henry Lincoln (the controversial and mostly ridiculous history that inspired The DaVinci Code)

Excuses...

One year before I began my undergraduate career the author Ray Bradbury spoke on the campus of Point Loma Nazarene University. Being the avid fan that I am I managed to find the videorecording of his talk. Among the multitude of nuggets of wisdom that the ol' boy dropped during his time rambling on the stage of the Crill Auditorium, one thing he said has stuck with me for better or worse. Concerning the writing process Bradbury said, "the moment you stop loving to write is the moment you should stop writing." I may be paraphrasing but I find this to be a poignant commentary on my perseverance in the world of writing and absolutely affects how I approach this blog. Rest assured I fully intend to continue writing it, but as I've suggested in the last few postings I get the feeling that a format change may be in order.

I would never allow my students the excuse that "they just weren't feeling it" when a writing assignment has not been completed (although I've heard this one before). Yet somehow I've justified hypocrisy when it comes to blogging. I get the sense that some of this might be a result of the general book-report feel that I think I've developed so far, as well as my own tendency to blog in long-form rather than short-form. But I've been giving a few other blogs a regular read and have to admit, the shorter form may be capable of engaging not only the writer but the audience a bit easier. I'm sure plenty of Luddite writers become restless in their graves at the thought of short-form, electronic composition overtaking more polished writing, and though even I cringe at the thought, I feel as if it may be an improvement to my commitment to the project.

Let's be clear on one thing; I DO still love to write. Yet sometimes the prospect of posting a picture, composing a discussion, and carving time away from other projects (or Dr. Who time, as has been the case lately) simply seems daunting. Although, here I go again with an extended discussion that I hadn't intended in the first place...

So, I propose the following: I think from this point on, I will make my book-ish postings only once a month and will reserve the rest of my time for shorter blog postings on any number of literary and artistic topics that pop into my mind (and I'm sure that my students will give me regular material. Woot.). Hopefully I'll even force myself to dust off and post some more stories. This is my plan. Blogging ho!

Christmas Stories - Charles Dickens

"...and it was always said of him that he knew how to keep Christmas well, if any man alive possessed the knowledge. May that be truly said of us, and all of us! And so, as Tiny Tim observed, God Bless Us, Every One!"

Last year around this time I focused on one of my ironic choices for Christmas reading by discussion what I consider to be the antithesis to Dickens; James Joyce's The Dead, but in the charitable spirit of the season I think I will break my miserly tradition and embrace the tale which has come to define, in more ways than one, the Spirit of the Christmas season.

Whenever we think of Charles Dickens, especially around December, immediately images crop up of faces in door knockers and frail children making exclamations of blessing. I enjoy a hearty rendering of A Christmas Carol as well as the next bloke, but I get the sense that our preoccupation with Ebenezer Scrooge's humbugging often obscures Dickens' literary preoccupation with the meaning of Christmas. This is not to downplay one of the Victorian author's most iconic tales; in fact, I almost feel that many of Dickens' other Christmassy short stories are searching for some kind of meaning in the winter holidays; a search that reached its culmination in the message of generosity and kindness that has come to epitomize nearly every piece of Christmas entertainment since the composition of A Christmas Carol. Indeed, one can find Ebeneezer Scrooge in any number of cinematic and literary incarnations from Dr. Seuss' Grinch to National Lampoons' Clark Griswold. Some of these incarnations are more overt than others but all point to the profound effect that Dickens' Victorian holiday narrative has had upon the cultural discourse of the English speaking world.

What one must, of course, consider here is to what extent we are willing to accept this particular holiday message. Most people will agree that the progression of Scrooge's character from miserly grouch to generous chap is a positive message for anyone during the Christmas season but we have to wonder if this particular narrative coincides or muscles out the intended meaning of the Christmas Holiday. The term holiday of course is an old portmanteau of Holy Day; a day reserved for the catholic (and later Anglican) Christ's Mass which was a period of community celebration that fit nicely into the December church calendar.

The importance of this holy-day, of course, was the celebration of the incarnation of the Christian messiah; the moment at which God committed a part of himself to earthly existence in order to demonstrate to humankind the significance of his willingness for self-sacrifice on their behalf. While the life of Christ as we understand it in the gospels certainly demonstrated values that undoubtedly align themselves with Dickens' narrative, the holiday itself seems to represent a significantly different narrative. At what point does our appreciation for God's mercy become supplanted by a sense of social generosity? According to some sources (and admittedly I have not done much research beyond wikipedia. So sue me) it is with Dickens.

Of course it would be too much to blame the prolific Victorian author with the sad slide toward the commercialization of a formerly sacred holiday but the circumstances surrounding this shift must make one think. That said, I cannot in my right mind diminish the importance of a holiday that emphasizes a general sense of unselfishness. Perhaps this is the way in which we may justify the holy-day to the holiday. In either case, on a literary level I must admit that I'll never stop reveling in the lush spirit of Dickens' Christmases, past, present, and future and the ghosts, holy or otherwise, that descend upon us with the snow of late December.

The Familiar

I've always enjoyed the notion of good fiction beginning with a dream and in the case of this heretofore unpublished short story this is exactly what happened. Oddly enough, at this point I can't entirely distinguish the story from the dream that came out of it. Undoubtedly the dream lacked much of the detail and meaning that the story has but in the mysterious workings of the human mind the two have fused. Enjoy, and as always, critiques are welcome (since someday it might be fun to publish this for real).

The Familiar

by Schuyler Eastin

            In the cool, bright morning she woke me. Her black hair spiraled down over my face like a wind chime crowned with a pair of emeralds. "Open your eyes," she said, her voice a distant mission bell. I did, and saw golden rays sitting patiently on the balcony outside our room, politely requesting admission. She leapt nimbly from the bed and flung open the double doors, granting the sun's request.

            She flitted across the room, an epiphany framed in sunlight like the dream that fades when eyes open. Leaning on the balcony rail she turned her head over her left shoulder to the east, then to her right, examining both horizons. I sat up, silently observing a bohemian curiosity in her face that I knew foretold change.

            The little house slept in the bosom of the open plains near the heart of the continent. The cottage was simple, with a peaked roof, like the teepees from that land's past.  A single dirt road ran to us from daybreak in the east and only took a moment nod at the front porch before rambling west towards twilight. Behind the house ran a stream that returned the liquid memories of the road back to their origin. This balanced the house, in a way, making it a wheel that spun slowly between two tracks. The  house had been our home for almost a year, which, for as restless a woman as she surely felt an eternity. But we had been happy.

            By the time my feet touched the cold wood floor she had disappeared and there was no telling where she would materialize.  But I had the comfort of knowing that the whirling gyre of her fancy would eventually lead her to the backyard where I intended to absorb myself in a book.

            After dressing, I descended the stairs and opened the back door. I stepped out into a yellow day and sat down in the old Adirondack chair that faced the stream. A glass filled with ice and an opaque orange liquid  sat sweating on one of its arms. I sipped and could faintly hear her whispered voice echo from the quiet choirs of grass blades, giving away the drink-conjuring trick.

            It tasted of pineapple and coconut dirtied with Pacific trade winds and a twist of watery sunsets; a stark change from the comfortable country apple and abiding oak flavors of yesterday.

            She returned when the day had grown hot and the white  haze of the morning sun had transformed into the dense orange of afternoon. She entered her grassy stage prancing, every bit like a creature born in a fireside tale. Her nimble figure seemed to navigate air as deftly as it managed the ground. She jumped, seemed to pause, and then slid to the ground with the tiniest, catlike effort; always sure to land on her feet. I had tried to dance with her once, but was too slow and she had left me wobbling like a spent top.

            I enjoyed the drink and watched as she whirled away in a graceful imitation of dandelion seeds. Her hair swung loose and its long black fan folded around her arms and shoulders, making them pale islands of rock in a strong dark river.  Her voice wavered through the breeze as she danced, half humming, half singing:

“...falling all around, time I was on my way. Thanks to you I’m much obliged such a pleasant stay...”

            She tossed a mischievous glance at me, bold eyes acknowledging my suspicions and thanking me for my acceptance. I smiled and took a deep breath, archiving its taste for later remembrance before returning to my book.

            Before her reappearance I had been partway through some hypnogogic tale of mystery and imagination but my reentry into that world felt barred. I was unable to draw myself back into fiction, as if my environment had grown uncomfortable; some important element lacked. Listening, I soon found that silence had overtaken the yard. I looked up, half expecting her to be sneaking up behind me, impulsively diving for a kiss.

            Instead she stood at the far end of the yard, in the shady parts beneath the passive trees that stretched to the creek. She stood rigid and in her profile I read wild fear. It was a look I had never seen in her before and I rose startled, following the line of her eyes to the opposite end of the yard where a tattered gate opened onto the banks of the stream.

            In the opening prowled the monstrous black shape of a panther with an open mouth and vicious eyes pointed directly at her. Though its back ran parallel with the top of the short fence the cat seemed monstrous, as if the gravity of its dangerous darkness gathered the world around it and squeezed out drops of submission. The panther scrutinized her with calm, wise strength, but also with brutal intent companioned by a leaden rumble in its throat that seemed to make the house and the watery glade shimmer like a mirror in an earthquake.

            Not thinking, I threw my book to the ground and leapt to her side. Only after I stood between it and its prey did the reality of danger reach me. I had thought nothing of the mad fear in her eyes which had filled the sails of my courage. Only when the hands of my frightened gypsy sheltered on my shoulders did I glimpse the murderous power in each of the hunter’s obsidian claws. But I had stood and would stand though courage had grown damp.

            This was a shrewd animal. It would not pounce unless its quarry was assured, so when I jumped the huge black cat stepped back and began pacing a circle around us. As it turned so did we and soon our backs were facing the break in the fence. The cat paused. I urged her to run and turned her quickly towards the gate.

            Terrified she sprang toward the rusted gate, but to my horror the panther sprang too. I froze as the cat launched itself with locomotive strength. But at the same moment its paws left the ground, an exposed root from one of the trees caught the foot of the gypsy girl and threw her on the bank of the stream. Time slowed as the blurred black mass sailed over her head like a zeppelin. A paw lashed but grasping only air thrust forward to meet the opposite bank of the creek, an unnatural distance that revealed the strength beneath the panther’s oily fur.

            I lifted her from the soft ground as the huge cat had turned and was regarding us coldly, pacing and patiently planning a second assault. The panther's eyes never strayed from her, even as she regained her feet. Her hands sought mine and squeezed but her eyes had locked on the cat. There seemed to be some ethereal fear or distant recognition that I did not understand. But her grasp empowered me as I slowly led her downstream.

            The creek widened to the East but the more water that ran between us, the harder the panther's resolve seemed to become. I halted in a silent glen where the drooping trees created a shady cave, permitting only splattered bolts of sunshine to drop onto the water's surface. I glared across the water at the haunting mass of midnight, silently daring it to do its worst. The cat only stared, unblinking, amidst the babbling pulse of the stream.

            The panther's drooping head was defiant as it calmly mounted an old log that lay in the water like a natural wharf. It crouched, drawing its hind legs like a bowstring and was still.

            I grew tense and gently drew the girl behind me, ready to shield her as best I could. But her still, soft voice spoke; “No.”

            She squeezed my hand once and stepped out from behind me. Though I still glared at the cat I felt her slide away from me. I had been her protector, some strange, lanky, white knight, but when she parted from me I felt my fortitude deflate and all the fear that I had pushed away rushed back like sand into a lonely coastal grave. Still holding my hand she took one step, then two, and then stood. She demurely faced her hunter with a kind of phosphorescent mourning around the rims of her eyes and then let my hand drop from hers.

            In a frozen moment the yellow eyes of the feline flickered at me and I silently dared the hunter to spring while terror left me inert and froze my throat.

            Her hand was still falling to her side when the taut tendons of the cat released. I blinked. I heard a hollow crunch followed by a tremendous splash. The panther, gasping amid the floating remnants of the log that had collapsed beneath its strength, disappeared under the swift current that carried it forever away.

           

            By twilight the house stood empty and lifeless save for two sets of footprints on it's doorstep that turned left toward the setting sun.

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