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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



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