a personal record-第1章

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A　PERSONAL　RECORD







BY　JOSEPH　CONRAD



























A　FAMILIAR　PREFACE







As　a　general　rule　we　do　not　want　much　encouragement　to　talk　about



ourselves；　yet　this　little　book　is　the　result　of　a　friendly



suggestion；　and　even　of　a　little　friendly　pressure。　I　defended



myself　with　some　spirit；　but；　with　characteristic　tenacity；　the



friendly　voice　insisted；　〃You　know；　you　really　must。〃







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　disparagement。　　It　is



better　for　mankind　to　be　impressionable　than　reflective。　　Nothing



humanely　greatgreat；　I　mean；　as　affecting　a　whole　mass　of



liveshas　come　from　reflection。　　On　the　other　hand；　you　cannot



fail　to　see　the　power　of　mere　words；　such　words　as　Glory；　for



instance；　or　Pity。　　I　won't　mention　any　more。　　They　are　not　far



to　seek。　　Shouted　with　perseverance；　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　fabric。　　There's　〃virtue〃　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　vocal　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　wreckage　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　sage　and　something　of　a　literary　man。　　He



jotted　down　on　ivory　tablets　thoughts；　maxims；　reflections　which



chance　has　preserved　for　the　edification　of　posterity。　　Among



other　sayingsI　am　quoting　from　memoryI　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　austere　emperor　to　jot　down



grandiose　advice。　　Most　of　the　working　truths　on　this　earth　are



humble；　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　potency　or　accents　of　irresistible



heroism。　　However　humiliating　for　my　self　esteem；　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　sincerity。　　That　complete；



praise　worthy　sincerity　which；　while　it　delivers　one　into　the



hands　of　one's　enemies；　is　as　likely　as　not　to　embroil　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



remains；　to　a　certain　extent；　a　figure　behind　the　veil；　a



suspected　rather　than　a　seen　presencea　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　ascetic　author；　who　knew　life　so



profoundly；　says　　that　〃there　are　persons　esteemed　on　their



reputation　who　by　showing　themselves　destroy　the　opinion　one　had



of　them。〃　　This　is　the　danger　incurred　by　an　author　of　fiction



who　sets　out　to　talk　about　himself　without　disguise。







While　these　reminiscent　pages　were　appearing　serially　I　was



remonstrated　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　sufficiently　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



thrift　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　economist；　but　it　is　certain　that　I　am



incorrigible。







Having　matured　in　the　surroundings　and　under　the　special



conditions　of　sea　life；　I　have　a　special　piety　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



elation　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　estranged；　in　a　measure；　from　them　by　the



totally　unintelligible　character　of　the　life　which　had　seduced　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　vibration



of　life　in　the　great　world　of　waters；　in　the　hearts　of　the　simple



men　who　have　for　ages　traversed　its　solitudes；　and　also　that



something　sentient　which　seems　to　dwell　in　shipsthe　creatures



of　their　hands　and　the　objects　of　their　care。







One's　literary　life　must　turn　frequently　for　sustenance　to