It was not an argument, but I submitted at once. If one must! . . .
You perceive the force of a word. He who wants to persuade should put his trust not in the right argument, but in the right word. The power of sound has always been greater than the power of sense. I don’t say this by way of disparagement2. It is better for mankind to be impressionable than reflective. Nothing humanely3 great — great, I mean, as affecting a whole mass of lives — has come from reflection. On the other hand, you cannot fail to see the power of mere4 words; such words as Glory, for instance, or Pity. I won’t mention any more. They are not far to seek. Shouted with perseverance5, with ardour, with conviction, these two by their sound alone have set whole nations in motion and upheaved the dry, hard ground on which rests our whole social fabric6. There’s “virtue7” for you if you like! . . . Of course the accent must be attended to. The right accent. That’s very important. The capacious lung, the thundering or the tender vocal8 chords. Don’t talk to me of your Archimedes’ lever.
He was an absent-minded person with a mathematical imagination. Mathematics commands all my respect, but I have no use for engines. Give me the right word and the right accent and I will move the world.
What a dream for a writer! Because written words have their accent, too. Yes! Let me only find the right word! Surely it must be lying somewhere among the wreckage9 of all the plaints and all the exultations poured out aloud since the first day when hope, the undying, came down on earth. It may be there, close by, disregarded, invisible, quite at hand. But it’s no good. I believe there are men who can lay hold of a needle in a pottle of hay at the first try. For myself, I have never had such luck. And then there is that accent. Another difficulty. For who is going to tell whether the accent is right or wrong till the word is shouted, and fails to be heard, perhaps, and goes down-wind, leaving the world unmoved? Once upon a time there lived an emperor who was a sage10 and something of a literary man. He jotted12 down on ivory tablets thoughts, maxims13, reflections which chance has preserved for the edification of posterity14. Among other sayings — I am quoting from memory — I remember this solemn admonition: “Let all thy words have the accent of heroic truth.” The accent of heroic truth! This is very fine, but I am thinking that it is an easy matter for an austere15 emperor to jot11 down grandiose16 advice. Most of the working truths on this earth are humble17, not heroic; and there have been times in the history of mankind when the accents of heroic truth have moved it to nothing but derision.
Nobody will expect to find between the covers of this little book words of extraordinary potency18 or accents of irresistible19 heroism20. However humiliating for my self esteem21, I must confess that the counsels of Marcus Aurelius are not for me. They are more fit for a moralist than for an artist. Truth of a modest sort I can promise you, and also sincerity22. That complete, praise worthy23 sincerity which, while it delivers one into the hands of one’s enemies, is as likely as not to embroil24 one with one’s friends.
“Embroil” is perhaps too strong an expression. I can’t imagine among either my enemies or my friends a being so hard up for something to do as to quarrel with me. “To disappoint one’s friends” would be nearer the mark. Most, almost all, friend ships of the writing period of my life have come to me through my books; and I know that a novelist lives in his work. He stands there, the only reality in an invented world, among imaginary things, happenings, and people. Writing about them, he is only writing about himself. But the disclosure is not complete. He remains25, to a certain extent, a figure behind the veil; a suspected rather than a seen presence — a movement and a voice behind the draperies of fiction. In these personal notes there is no such veil. And I cannot help thinking of a passage in the “Imitation of Christ” where the ascetic26 author, who knew life so profoundly, says that “there are persons esteemed27 on their reputation who by showing themselves destroy the opinion one had of them.” This is the danger incurred28 by an author of fiction who sets out to talk about himself without disguise.
While these reminiscent pages were appearing serially29 I was remonstrated30 with for bad economy; as if such writing were a form of self-indulgence wasting the substance of future volumes. It seems that I am not sufficiently31 literary. Indeed, a man who never wrote a line for print till he was thirty-six cannot bring himself to look upon his existence and his experience, upon the sum of his thoughts, sensations, and emotions, upon his memories and his regrets, and the whole possession of his past, as only so much material for his hands. Once before, some three years ago, when I published “The Mirror of the Sea,” a volume of impressions and memories, the same remarks were made to me. Practical remarks. But, truth to say, I have never understood the kind of thrift32 they recommend. I wanted to pay my tribute to the sea, its ships and its men, to whom I remain indebted for so much which has gone to make me what I am. That seemed to me the only shape in which I could offer it to their shades. There could not be a question in my mind of anything else. It is quite possible that I am a bad economist33; but it is certain that I am incorrigible34.
Having matured in the surroundings and under the special conditions of sea life, I have a special piety35 toward that form of my past; for its impressions were vivid, its appeal direct, its demands such as could be responded to with the natural elation36 of youth and strength equal to the call. There was nothing in them to perplex a young conscience. Having broken away from my origins under a storm of blame from every quarter which had the merest shadow of right to voice an opinion, removed by great distances from such natural affections as were still left to me, and even estranged37, in a measure, from them by the totally unintelligible38 character of the life which had seduced39 me so mysteriously from my allegiance, I may safely say that through the blind force of circumstances the sea was to be all my world and the merchant service my only home for a long succession of years. No wonder, then, that in my two exclusively sea books —“The Nigger of the Narcissus,” and “The Mirror of the Sea” (and in the few short sea stories like “Youth” and “Typhoon”— I have tried with an almost filial regard to render the vibration40 of life in the great world of waters, in the hearts of the simple men who have for ages traversed its solitudes41, and also that something sentient42 which seems to dwell in ships — the creatures of their hands and the objects of their care.
One’s literary life must turn frequently for sustenance43 to memories and seek discourse44 with the shades, unless one has made up one’s mind to write only in order to reprove mankind for what it is, or praise it for what it is not, or — generally — to teach it how to behave. Being neither quarrelsome, nor a flatterer, nor a sage, I have done none of these things, and I am prepared to put up serenely45 with the insignificance46 which attaches to persons who are not meddlesome47 in some way or other. But resignation is not indifference48. I would not like to be left standing49 as a mere spectator on the bank of the great stream carrying onward50 so many lives. I would fain claim for myself the faculty51 of so much insight as can be expressed in a voice of sympathy and compassion52.
It seems to me that in one, at least, authoritative53 quarter of criticism I am suspected of a certain unemotional, grim acceptance of facts — of what the French would call secheresse du coeur. Fifteen years of unbroken silence before praise or blame testify sufficiently to my respect for criticism, that fine flower of personal expression in the garden of letters. But this is more of a personal matter, reaching the man behind the work, and therefore it may be alluded54 to in a volume which is a personal note in the margin55 of the public page. Not that I feel hurt in the least. The charge — if it amounted to a charge at all — was made in the most considerate terms; in a tone of regret.
My answer is that if it be true that every novel contains an element of autobiography56 — and this can hardly be denied, since the creator can only express himself in his creation — then there are some of us to whom an open display of sentiment is repugnant.
I would not unduly57 praise the virtue of restraint. It is often merely temperamental. But it is not always a sign of coldness. It may be pride. There can be nothing more humiliating than to see the shaft58 of one’s emotion miss the mark of either laughter or tears. Nothing more humiliating! And this for the reason that should the mark be missed, should the open display of emotion fail to move, then it must perish unavoidably in disgust or contempt. No artist can be reproached for shrinking from a risk which only fools run to meet and only genius dare confront with impunity59. In a task which mainly consists in laying one’s soul more or less bare to the world, a regard for decency60, even at the cost of success, is but the regard for one’s own dignity which is inseparably united with the dignity of one’s work.
And then — it is very difficult to be wholly joyous61 or wholly sad on this earth. The comic, when it is human, soon takes upon itself a face of pain; and some of our griefs (some only, not all, for it is the capacity for suffering which makes man August in the eyes of men) have their source in weaknesses which must be recognized with smiling com passion as the common inheritance of us all. Joy and sorrow in this world pass into each other, mingling62 their forms and their murmurs63 in the twilight64 of life as mysterious as an over shadowed ocean, while the dazzling brightness of supreme65 hopes lies far off, fascinating and still, on the distant edge of the horizon.
Yes! I, too, would like to hold the magic wand giving that command over laughter and tears which is declared to be the highest achievement of imaginative literature. Only, to be a great magician one must surrender oneself to occult and irresponsible powers, either outside or within one’s breast. We have all heard of simple men selling their souls for love or power to some grotesque66 devil. The most ordinary intelligence can perceive without much reflection that anything of the sort is bound to be a fool’s bargain. I don’t lay claim to particular wisdom because of my dislike and distrust of such transactions. It may be my sea training acting67 upon a natural disposition68 to keep good hold on the one thing really mine, but the fact is that I have a positive horror of losing even for one moving moment that full possession of my self which is the first condition of good service. And I have carried my notion of good service from my earlier into my later existence. I, who have never sought in the written word anything else but a form of the Beautiful — I have carried over that article of creed69 from the decks of ships to the more circumscribed70 space of my desk, and by that act, I suppose, I have become permanently71 imperfect in the eyes of the ineffable72 company of pure esthetes.
As in political so in literary action a man wins friends for himself mostly by the passion of his prejudices and by the consistent narrowness of his outlook. But I have never been able to love what was not lovable or hate what was not hateful out of deference73 for some general principle. Whether there be any courage in making this admission I know not. After the middle turn of life’s way we consider dangers and joys with a tranquil74 mind. So I proceed in peace to declare that I have always suspected in the effort to bring into play the extremities75 of emotions the debasing touch of insincerity. In order to move others deeply we must deliberately76 allow ourselves to be carried away beyond the bounds of our normal sensibility — innocently enough, perhaps, and of necessity, like an actor who raises his voice on the stage above the pitch of natural conversation — but still we have to do that. And surely this is no great sin. But the danger lies in the writer becoming the victim of his own exaggeration, losing the exact notion of sincerity, and in the end coming to despise truth itself as something too cold, too blunt for his purpose — as, in fact, not good enough for his insistent77 emotion. From laughter and tears the descent is easy to snivelling and giggles78.
These may seem selfish considerations; but you can’t, in sound morals, condemn79 a man for taking care of his own integrity. It is his clear duty. And least of all can you condemn an artist pursuing, however humbly80 and imperfectly, a creative aim. In that interior world where his thought and his emotions go seeking for the experience of imagined adventures, there are no policemen, no law, no pressure of circumstance or dread82 of opinion to keep him within bounds. Who then is going to say Nay83 to his temptations if not his conscience?
And besides — this, remember, is the place and the moment of perfectly81 open talk — I think that all ambitions are lawful84 except those which climb upward on the miseries85 or credulities of mankind. All intellectual and artistic86 ambitions are permissible87, up to and even beyond the limit of prudent88 sanity89. They can hurt no one. If they are mad, then so much the worse for the artist. Indeed, as virtue is said to be, such ambitions are their own reward. Is it such a very mad presumption90 to believe in the sovereign power of one’s art, to try for other means, for other ways of affirming this belief in the deeper appeal of one’s work? To try to go deeper is not to be insensible. A historian of hearts is not a historian of emotions, yet he penetrates91 further, restrained as he may be, since his aim is to reach the very fount of laughter and tears. The sight of human affairs deserves admiration92 and pity. They are worthy of respect, too. And he is not insensible who pays them the undemonstrative tribute of a sigh which is not a sob93, and of a smile which is not a grin. Resignation, not mystic, not detached, but resignation open-eyed, conscious, and informed by love, is the only one of our feelings for which it is impossible to become a sham94.
Not that I think resignation the last word of wisdom. I am too much the creature of my time for that. But I think that the proper wisdom is to will what the gods will without, perhaps, being certain what their will is — or even if they have a will of their own. And in this matter of life and art it is not the Why that matters so much to our happiness as the How. As the Frenchman said, “Il y a toujours la maniere.” Very true. Yes. There is the manner. The manner in laughter, in tears, in irony95, in indignations and enthusiasms, in judgments96 — and even in love. The manner in which, as in the features and character of a human face, the inner truth is foreshadowed for those who know how to look at their kind.
Those who read me know my conviction that the world, the temporal world, rests on a few very simple ideas; so simple that they must be as old as the hills. It rests notably97, among others, on the idea of Fidelity98. At a time when nothing which is not revolutionary in some way or other can expect to attract much attention I have not been revolutionary in my writings. The revolutionary spirit is mighty99 convenient in this, that it frees one from all scruples100 as regards ideas. Its hard, absolute optimism is repulsive101 to my mind by the menace of fanaticism102 and intolerance it contains. No doubt one should smile at these things; but, imperfect Esthete, I am no better Philosopher.
All claim to special righteousness awakens103 in me that scorn and danger from which a philosophical104 mind should be free. . . .
I fear that trying to be conversational105 I have only managed to be unduly discursive106. I have never been very well acquainted with the art of conversation — that art which, I understand, is supposed to be lost now. My young days, the days when one’s habits and character are formed, have been rather familiar with long silences. Such voices as broke into them were anything but conversational. No. I haven’t got the habit. Yet this discursiveness107 is not so irrelevant108 to the handful of pages which follow. They, too, have been charged with discursiveness, with disregard of chronological109 order (which is in itself a crime), with unconventionality of form (which is an impropriety). I was told severely110 that the public would view with displeasure the informal character of my recollections. “Alas!” I protested, mildly. “Could I begin with the sacramental words, ‘I was born on such a date in such a place’? The remoteness of the locality would have robbed the statement of all interest. I haven’t lived through wonderful adventures to be related seriatim. I haven’t known distinguished111 men on whom I could pass fatuous112 remarks. I haven’t been mixed up with great or scandalous affairs. This is but a bit of psychological document, and even so, I haven’t written it with a view to put forward any conclusion of my own.”
But my objector was not placated113. These were good reasons for not writing at all — not a defense114 of what stood written already, he said.
I admit that almost anything, anything in the world, would serve as a good reason for not writing at all. But since I have written them, all I want to say in their defense is that these memories put down without any regard for established conventions have not been thrown off without system and purpose. They have their hope and their aim. The hope that from the reading of these pages there may emerge at last the vision of a personality; the man behind the books so fundamentally dissimilar as, for instance, “Almayer’s Folly” and “The Secret Agent,” and yet a coherent, justifiable115 personality both in its origin and in its action. This is the hope. The immediate116 aim, closely associated with the hope, is to give the record of personal memories by presenting faithfully the feelings and sensations connected with the writing of my first book and with my first contact with the sea.
In the purposely mingled117 resonance118 of this double strain a friend here and there will perhaps detect a subtle accord.
J. C. K.
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1
tenacity
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| n.坚韧 | |
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disparagement
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| n.轻视，轻蔑 | |
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humanely
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| adv.仁慈地；人道地；富人情地；慈悲地 | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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perseverance
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| n.坚持不懈，不屈不挠 | |
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fabric
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| n.织物，织品，布；构造，结构，组织 | |
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virtue
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| n.德行，美德；贞操；优点；功效，效力 | |
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vocal
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| adj.直言不讳的；嗓音的；n.[pl.]声乐节目 | |
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wreckage
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| n.（失事飞机等的）残骸，破坏，毁坏 | |
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sage
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| n.圣人，哲人；adj.贤明的，明智的 | |
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jot
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| n.少量；vi.草草记下；vt.匆匆写下 | |
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jotted
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| v.匆忙记下( jot的过去式和过去分词 )；草草记下，匆匆记下 | |
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maxims
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| n.格言，座右铭( maxim的名词复数 ) | |
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posterity
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| n.后裔，子孙，后代 | |
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austere
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| adj.艰苦的；朴素的，朴实无华的；严峻的 | |
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grandiose
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| adj.宏伟的，宏大的，堂皇的，铺张的 | |
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humble
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| adj.谦卑的，恭顺的；地位低下的；v.降低，贬低 | |
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potency
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| n. 效力，潜能 | |
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irresistible
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| adj.非常诱人的，无法拒绝的，无法抗拒的 | |
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heroism
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| n.大无畏精神，英勇 | |
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esteem
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| n.尊敬，尊重；vt.尊重，敬重；把…看作 | |
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sincerity
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| n.真诚，诚意；真实 | |
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worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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embroil
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| vt.拖累；牵连；使复杂 | |
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remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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ascetic
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| adj.禁欲的；严肃的 | |
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esteemed
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| adj.受人尊敬的v.尊敬( esteem的过去式和过去分词 )；敬重；认为；以为 | |
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incurred
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| [医]招致的，遭受的； incur的过去式 | |
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serially
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| adv.连续地，连续刊载地 | |
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remonstrated
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| v.抗议( remonstrate的过去式和过去分词 )；告诫 | |
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sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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thrift
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| adj.节约，节俭；n.节俭，节约 | |
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economist
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| n.经济学家，经济专家，节俭的人 | |
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incorrigible
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| adj.难以纠正的，屡教不改的 | |
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piety
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| n.虔诚，虔敬 | |
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elation
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| n.兴高采烈，洋洋得意 | |
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estranged
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| adj.疏远的，分离的 | |
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unintelligible
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| adj.无法了解的，难解的，莫明其妙的 | |
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seduced
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| 诱奸( seduce的过去式和过去分词 )； 勾引； 诱使堕落； 使入迷 | |
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vibration
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| n.颤动，振动；摆动 | |
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solitudes
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| n.独居( solitude的名词复数 )；孤独；荒僻的地方；人迹罕至的地方 | |
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sentient
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| adj.有知觉的，知悉的；adv.有感觉能力地 | |
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sustenance
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| n.食物，粮食；生活资料；生计 | |
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discourse
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| n.论文，演说；谈话；话语；vi.讲述，著述 | |
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serenely
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| adv.安详地，宁静地，平静地 | |
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insignificance
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| n.不重要；无价值；无意义 | |
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meddlesome
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| adj.爱管闲事的 | |
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indifference
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| n.不感兴趣，不关心，冷淡，不在乎 | |
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standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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onward
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| adj.向前的，前进的；adv.向前，前进，在先 | |
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faculty
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| n.才能；学院，系；(学院或系的)全体教学人员 | |
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compassion
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| n.同情，怜悯 | |
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authoritative
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| adj.有权威的，可相信的；命令式的；官方的 | |
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alluded
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| 提及，暗指( allude的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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margin
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| n.页边空白；差额；余地，余裕；边，边缘 | |
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autobiography
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| n.自传 | |
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unduly
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| adv.过度地，不适当地 | |
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shaft
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| n.(工具的)柄，杆状物 | |
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impunity
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| n.(惩罚、损失、伤害等的)免除 | |
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decency
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| n.体面，得体，合宜，正派，庄重 | |
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joyous
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| adj.充满快乐的；令人高兴的 | |
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mingling
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| adj.混合的 | |
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murmurs
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| n.低沉、连续而不清的声音( murmur的名词复数 )；低语声；怨言；嘀咕 | |
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twilight
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| n.暮光，黄昏；暮年，晚期，衰落时期 | |
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supreme
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| adj.极度的，最重要的；至高的，最高的 | |
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grotesque
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| adj.怪诞的，丑陋的；n.怪诞的图案，怪人（物） | |
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acting
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| n.演戏，行为，假装；adj.代理的，临时的，演出用的 | |
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disposition
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| n.性情，性格；意向，倾向；排列，部署 | |
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creed
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| n.信条；信念，纲领 | |
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circumscribed
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| adj.[医]局限的：受限制或限于有限空间的v.在…周围划线( circumscribe的过去式和过去分词 )；划定…范围；限制；限定 | |
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permanently
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| adv.永恒地，永久地，固定不变地 | |
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ineffable
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| adj.无法表达的，不可言喻的 | |
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deference
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| n.尊重，顺从；敬意 | |
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tranquil
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| adj. 安静的, 宁静的, 稳定的, 不变的 | |
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extremities
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| n.端点( extremity的名词复数 )；尽头；手和足；极窘迫的境地 | |
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deliberately
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| adv.审慎地；蓄意地；故意地 | |
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insistent
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| adj.迫切的，坚持的 | |
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giggles
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| n.咯咯的笑( giggle的名词复数 )；傻笑；玩笑；the giggles 止不住的格格笑v.咯咯地笑( giggle的第三人称单数 ) | |
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condemn
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| vt.谴责，指责；宣判(罪犯)，判刑 | |
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humbly
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| adv. 恭顺地，谦卑地 | |
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perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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83
nay
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| adv.不；n.反对票，投反对票者 | |
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lawful
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| adj.法律许可的，守法的，合法的 | |
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miseries
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| n.痛苦( misery的名词复数 )；痛苦的事；穷困；常发牢骚的人 | |
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artistic
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| adj.艺术(家)的，美术(家)的；善于艺术创作的 | |
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permissible
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| adj.可允许的，许可的 | |
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prudent
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| adj.谨慎的，有远见的，精打细算的 | |
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sanity
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| n.心智健全，神智正常，判断正确 | |
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presumption
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| n.推测，可能性，冒昧，放肆，[法律]推定 | |
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penetrates
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| v.穿过( penetrate的第三人称单数 )；刺入；了解；渗透 | |
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admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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sob
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| n.空间轨道的轰炸机；呜咽，哭泣 | |
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sham
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| n./adj.假冒(的)，虚伪(的) | |
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irony
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| n.反语，冷嘲；具有讽刺意味的事，嘲弄 | |
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judgments
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| 判断( judgment的名词复数 )； 鉴定； 评价； 审判 | |
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notably
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| adv.值得注意地，显著地，尤其地，特别地 | |
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fidelity
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| n.忠诚，忠实；精确 | |
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mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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scruples
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| n.良心上的不安( scruple的名词复数 )；顾虑，顾忌v.感到于心不安，有顾忌( scruple的第三人称单数 ) | |
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101
repulsive
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| adj.排斥的，使人反感的 | |
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102
fanaticism
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| n.狂热，盲信 | |
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103
awakens
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| v.（使）醒( awaken的第三人称单数 )；（使）觉醒；弄醒；（使）意识到 | |
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philosophical
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| adj.哲学家的，哲学上的，达观的 | |
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conversational
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| adj.对话的，会话的 | |
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106
discursive
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| adj.离题的，无层次的 | |
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discursiveness
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| n.漫谈离题，推论 | |
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irrelevant
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| adj.不恰当的，无关系的，不相干的 | |
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chronological
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| adj.按年月顺序排列的，年代学的 | |
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110
severely
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| adv.严格地；严厉地；非常恶劣地 | |
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111
distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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112
fatuous
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| adj.愚昧的；昏庸的 | |
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113
placated
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| v.安抚，抚慰，使平静( placate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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114
defense
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| n.防御，保卫；[pl.]防务工事；辩护，答辩 | |
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115
justifiable
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| adj.有理由的，无可非议的 | |
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116
immediate
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| adj.立即的；直接的，最接近的；紧靠的 | |
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117
mingled
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| 混合，混入( mingle的过去式和过去分词 )； 混进，与…交往[联系] | |
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118
resonance
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| n.洪亮；共鸣；共振 | |
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