Identify the links between Marlow & Kurtz

As I said in class Wednesday, this is a blog in which your group posts its findings. Make the entry as complete as you can, and sign everyone's name at the bottom. Should be very interesting…

To re-cap, here's the prompt from class:

Heart of Darkness is not Kurtz’s story, but Marlow’s. In your group discussion, work to develop a better understanding of our enigmatic narrator. Start by re-reading his account of his job interview in the “Sepulchral City” (also the conversation with his aunt).

Note this later statement:

Part 1 ¶ 62

I would not have gone so far as to fight for Kurtz, but I went for him near enough to a lie. You know I hate, detest, and can’t bear a lie, not because I am straighter than the rest of us, but simply because it appalls me. There is a taint of death, a flavour of mortality in lies—which is exactly what I hate and detest in the world—what I want to forget. It makes me miserable and sick, like biting something rotten would do.

What lie does Marlow tell for Kurtz, and why does he tell it? How does Marlow become entangled in a lie when he signs on as a steamboat captain in the Congo?

What is the nature of his attachment toward—loyalty for—Kurtz? Just a preference for hot-running devils?

Can you find any clue to the effects—physical & spiritual—of Marlow's experience in the Congo in Narrator One’s description of him?

Two kinds of devils

Read ¶ 38 of Part 1. For this blog, consider Marlow’s curious statement about devils.

You know I am not particularly tender; I’ve had to strike and to fend off. I’ve had to resist and to attack sometimes—that’s only one way of resisting—without counting the exact cost, according to the demands of such sort of life as I had blundered into. I’ve seen the devil of violence, and the devil of greed, and the devil of hot desire; but, by all the stars! these were strong, lusty, red-eyed devils, that swayed and drove men—men, I tell you. But as I stood on this hillside, I foresaw that in the blinding sunshine of that land I would become acquainted with a flabby, pretending, weak-eyed devil of a rapacious and pitiless folly. How insidious he could be, too, I was only to find out several months later and a thousand miles farther.

What sort of man or men fit this description of a “flabby, pretending, weak-eyed devil of a rapacious and pitiless folly”? Are there examples of them in Part 1? If so, who and why? Why does Marlow prefer the “strong, lusty, red-eyed devils, that swayed and drove men” over this breed? Are there any examples of the strong & lusty sort to be found in Part 1, or anywhere else for that matter? Who, if any—and why?

• • • • • • • • • •

That's the blog assignment. For Monday's conversation in class, think also about these topics and note the appropriate passages in your text:

Think also about these:

• The continuing contrasts of dark & light
• Contrast between the representatives of “civilization” and the "enemies" who work for them and receive punishment from them. With whom does Marlow chiefly empathize, even if his comprehension is imperfect?
• Contrast between the representatives of “civilization” and the wilderness that surround them, opposed to the relation that the natives carry on with the same wilderness.
• Atmosphere: a nebulous yet distinct product of diction, phrasing and description. In this work it is especially powerful.
• Striking pairs. Examples—Marlow’s ¶13 with the 1^st narrator’s ¶ 6. The torch becomes the “idea; and an unselfish belief in the idea…” OR Two black hens, ¶21 and the two “Fates” ¶23 & 25
• Irony that borders on humor. (Maybe Conrad doesn't get enough credit for his sense of humor). Examples—The death of Fresleven, ¶21. “The supernatural being had not been touched after he fell.” OR The old doctor who measures heads ¶27 OR ¶51 The drunken officer “looking after the upkeep of the road…” though, Marlow says, “Can’t say I saw any road or any upkeep, unless the body of a middle-aged negro, with a bullet-hole in the forehead, upon which I absolutely stumbled three miles farther on, may be considered as a permanent improvement.”

The haze in the glow

From Part 1, ¶ 9:

The yarns of seamen have a direct simplicity, the whole meaning of which lies within the shell of a cracked nut. But Marlow was not typical (if his propensity to spin yarns be excepted), and to him the meaning of an episode was not inside like a kernel but outside, enveloping the tale which brought it out only as a glow brings out a haze, in the likeness of one of these misty halos that sometimes are made visible by the spectral illumination of moonshine.

From Part 1, ¶ 14:

We looked on, waiting patiently—there was nothing else to do till the end of the flood; but it was only after a long silence, when he said, in a hesitating voice, “I suppose you fellows remember I did once turn fresh-water sailor for a bit,” that we knew we were fated, before the ebb began to run, to hear about one of Marlow’s inconclusive experiences.

In the narrator’s indirect way (Marlow’s experiences are “inconclusive,” the meaning of his yarn is “not inside” but “outside”) he—with the author—is warning his audience about the tale Marlow will relate.

[And if you're confused, note that an unnamed narrator starts our tale, then turns it over to Marlow for most of the duration.]

What do his warnings lead us to expect, and not to expect, from the tale Marlow tells? Can we assign exact meaning and interpretation to utterances like, "The horror! The horror!"?

Remember—your response to this is one paragraph, tops!

Response to essays

By now you should have read the three essays on Oedipus Tyrannos by Marjorie Barstow, S.M. Adams and Robert Cohen.

Marjorie Barstow’s essay identifies the crucial differences between Aristotle’s concept of an ideal man and his concept of a tragic hero. She wrote the essay during her sophomore year at Cornell University, 1909-1910. Later she revised and re-titled it (excitingly) “Oedipus Rex: A Typical Greek Tragedy.” In that form the essay was included in Lane Cooper’s The Greek Genius and Its Influence [New Haven: Yale University Press, 1917.

The other two essays were written much later. They do not align with each other in many respects: Cohen has a point to make about the relevancy of Sophocles’s work to the 20^th century concept of absurdism. His reference to Samuel Beckett’s Waiting for Godot makes clear his familiarity with what came to be known as the Theatre of the Absurd, a post WWII phenomenon of plays written by (says Encyclopedia Britannica)…

“…certain European and American dramatists of the 1950s and early ‘60s who agreed with the Existentialist philosopher Albert Camus’s assessment, in his essay “The Myth of Sisyphus” (1942), that the human situation is essentially absurd, devoid of purpose.”

I hope this explanation clears up any confusion you might feel about Cohen’s use of the word “absurd.” His is a different view on the nature of Oedipus’s role as tragic hero than the one that Adams presents. How you react to them very much depends on your own perspective.

Which of the three writers expressed for you the most stimulating and revealing ideas and insights. Were any of your own ideas overturned? Did you learn anything about Oedipus, or about interpreting Oedipus, that might affect your own future writing?

That’s the blog post for Monday. Apologies for failing to get it up sooner.

Get your voice in tune—put on your masks, your chitons & kothornoi—WE'RE GONNA HAVE A SHOW!

Esteemed Thespians (for that is what you are):

Read a third or so of Oedipus, so that you come to the stage with at least a third of the awareness a traditional Greek audience (we won't even mention the players) would have in launching the drama.

Mark any notable examples therein of dramatic irony—the kind that creates its own variety of suspense, or might excite an apt audience to fear and pity. Be prepared to point such things out, even if it means stopping the show.

And remember: the closer you hug the walls of the room, the more I'll be inclined to drop a major role on you. As they (probably) say at Intel & Nike—be a team player.

Yours,

J.D.

Get ready for our last discussion

Monday is our last day to work on themes from Brave New World. Don't be a slacker and leave your book at home. Instead, re-read the last three chapters and come to class with some ideas to raise and discuss. The quality of your preparation will determine the quality of the class.

Your first major essay will be due the following Tuesday. I'll give you a set of prompts to consider in developing your thesis—but of course, it's better if you already have some idea of what you where you want to go.

Starting Wednesday dramatic irony will be our topic of choice. Our text will be a translation of Oedipus Tyrannos, by Sophocles. In the meantime, you should be sure to get your copy of Heart of Darkness and start reading it (even better: you've got it already and your reading is under way). The best approach is to read it through, then re-read each section (there are three) as we work through this tough little book in class.

Warning: it's difficult. You don't want to cram this material—you want it to soak it.

Regards,

J.D.

Shakespeare as a guide to living life

John’s beat-up copy of the complete works of Shakespeare (a gift of sorts from his mother’s lover Popé) becomes his means of understanding life and people. For example, during his big “love scene” with Lenina, in chapter 13 of the novel, John expresses his desire for a pure kind of love that can only be consummated in marriage. He stammers fragments from The Tempest—words that the young prince Ferdinand speaks to Prospero’s innocent and lovely daughter Miranda:

O you,
So perfect and so peerless, are created
Of every creature’s best!

But Lenina, hardly comprehending such highflown language, responds this way:

‘Put your arms round me,’ she commanded. ‘Hug me till you drug me, honey.’ She too had poetry at her command, knew words that sang and were spells and beat drums. ‘Kiss me’; she closed her eyes, she let her voice sink to a sleepy murmur, ‘kiss me till I’m in a coma. Hug me, honey, snuggly…’

As John becomes violent, he searches his store of Shakespeare for words that express his anger and disappointment at finding his Juliet is a mere “strumpet.” From the love-smitten Ferdinand he turns to the the insanely jealous Othello: ‘O thou weed, who art so lovely fair and smell’st so sweet that the sense aches at thee. Was this most goodly book made to write “whore” upon? Heaven stops the nose at it…’
Why, do you suppose, does Aldous Huxley give his near-hero John Shakespeare and only Shakespeare as a handbook for life? What are the strengths and limitations of such a guide? What’s noble and what’s ridiculous about John’s approach to romance?