Enjoy The Nigger Of The Narcissus And The Secret Sharer Published By Joseph Conrad Listed As Softcover

I wish he had called this book something different, I can't tell my students to read it in class or I'll get slapped with a lawsuit! Nevertheless the "Narcissus" is Conrad at his greatest, which is to say some of the greatest writing bar none.
Dark, spidery, mythological and magnificent, BTW all of Conrad's novels are beautiful for different reasons, Under Western Eyes is a magnificent meditation on Russia and Russians, Nostromo on the Italian "soul" if you will, versus the Anglo, One day I promise myself I will teach a class just on Conrad and his vast knowledge of human nature, There won't be enough time, Conrad is at his best in these two stories, both set at sea, In the first, a black sailor lays dying on a ship bound from India to London, and his presence has a profound effect on the crew.
If not for its unfortunate title, this would probably be one of Conrad's bestread pieces: he brings with to it all his knowledge of sailing and the ways men act when faced with moral ambiguity.
And despite the title and Conrad's own reputation as a racist stemming I think unfairly from some passages in Heart of Darkness, the issue of race is treated with an sensitivity that seems unusual for.


"The Secret Sharer" is a much shorter story only about twenty pages long but in it Conrad manages to squeeze a memorable tale of suspense and dread.
In it, a mysterious figure washes up on a ship and is hidden by the Captain in his quarters, What unfolds is a ghost story, a comingofage story, and a story about identity and probably more besides, Definitely worth a read. I was set this as a reading topic at school, I was so naive at the age of/, that I didn't understand it, None of the author's thoughts or messages, I know now, but hey Why did school's set books which were too old for the pupil I certainly wasn't the only one who was out of her depth at the time.
Basically, my grammar school was only interested in how many pupils it could pass on to Oxford and Cambridge, Other folk didn't matter. So her, I missed out, and have been making up for it since, Keep reading whatever you do, It doesn't matter what you read, you learn, learn, learn, Even whether or not to believe the content of what you are reading,
Here endeth the Cathyread lecture! Just decided to reproduce the preface here:

A work that aspires, however humbly, to the condition of art should carry its justification in every line.
And art itself may be defined as a singleminded attempt to render the highest kind of justice to the visible universe, by bringing to light the truth, manifold and one, underlying its every aspect.
It is an attempt to find in its forms, in its colours, in its light, in its shadows, in the aspects of matter and in the facts of life, what of each is fundamental, what is enduring and essential their one illuminating and convincing quality the very truth of their existence.
The artist, then, like the thinker or the scientist, seeks the truth and makes his appeal, Impressed by the aspect of the world the thinker plunges into ideas, the scientist into facts whence, presently, emerging they make their appeal to those qualities of our being that fit us best for the hazardous enterprise of living.
They speak authoritatively to our commonsense, to our intelligence, to our desire of peace or to our desire of unrest not seldom to our prejudices, sometimes to our fears, often to our egoism but always to our credulity.
And their words are heard with reverence, for their concern is with weighty matters: with the cultivation of our minds and the proper care of our bodies with the attainment of our ambitions with the perfection of the means and the glorification of our precious aims.


It is otherwise with the artist,

Confronted by the same enigmatical spectacle the artist descends within himself, and in that lonely region of stress and strife, if he be deserving and fortunate, he finds the terms of his appeal.
His appeal is made to our less obvious capacities: to that part of our nature which, because of the warlike conditions of existence, is necessarily kept out of sight within the more resisting and hard qualities like the vulnerable body within the steel armour.
His appeal is less loud, more profound, less distinct, more stirring and sooner forgotten, Yet its effect endures for ever, The changing wisdom of successive generations discards ideas, questions facts, demolishes theories, But the artist appeals to that part of our being which is not dependent on wisdom: to that in us which is a gift and not an acquisition and, therefore, more permanently enduring.
He speaks to our capacity for delight and wonder, to the sense of mystery surrounding our lives to our sense of pity, and beauty, and pain to the latent feeling of fellowship with all creation and to the subtle but invincible, conviction of solidarity that knits together the loneliness of innumerable hearts: to the solidarity in dreams, in joy, in sorrow, in aspirations, in illusions, in hope, in fear, which binds men to each other, which binds together all humanity the dead to the living and the living to the unborn.


It is only some such train of thought, or rather of feeling, that can in a measure explain the aim of the attempt, made in the tale which follows, to present an unrestful episode in the obscure lives of a few individuals out of all the disregarded multitude of the bewildered, the simple and the voiceless.
For, if there is any part of truth in the belief confessed above, it becomes evident that there is not a place of splendour or a dark corner of the earth that does not deserve, if only a passing glance of wonder and pity.
The motive, then, may be held to justify the matter of the work but this preface, which is simply an avowal of endeavour, cannot end here for the avowal is not yet complete.


Fiction if it at all aspires to be art appeals to temperament, And in truth it must be, like painting, like music, like all art, the appeal of one temperament to all the other innumerable temperaments whose subtle and resistless power endows passing events with their true meaning, and creates the moral, the emotional atmosphere of the place and time.
Such an appeal, to be effective, must be an impression conveyed through the senses and, in fact, it cannot be made in any other way, because temperament, whether individual or collective, is not amenable to persuasion.
All art, therefore, appeals primarily to the senses, and the artistic aim when expressing itself in written words must also make its appeal through the

senses, if its high desire is to reach the secret spring of responsive emotions.
It must strenuously aspire to the plasticity of sculpture, to the colour of painting, and to the magic suggestiveness of music which is the art of arts.
And it is only through complete, unswerving devotion to the perfect blending of form and substance it is only through an unremitting, neverdiscouraged care for the shape and ring of sentences that an approach can be made to plasticity, to colour and the light of magic suggestiveness may be brought to play for an evanescent instant over the commonplace surface of words: of the old, old words, worn thin, defaced by ages of careless usage.


The sincere endeavour to accomplish that creative task, to go as far on that road as his strength will carry him, to go undeterred by faltering, weariness or reproach, is the only valid justification for the worker in prose.
And if his conscience is clear, his answer to those who, in the fulness of a wisdom which looks for immediate profit, demand specifically to be edified, consoled, amused who demand to be promptly improved, or encouraged, or frightened, or shocked, or charmed, must run thus: My task which I am trying to achieve is, by the power of the written word, to make you hear, to make you feel it is, before all, to make you see.
That and no more, and it is everything, If I succeed, you shall find there according to your deserts: encouragement, consolation, fear, charm all you demand and, perhaps, also that glimpse of truth for which you have forgotten to ask.


To snatch in a moment of courage, from the remorseless rush of time, a sapping phase of life is only the beginning of the task.
The task approached in tenderness and faith is to hold up unquestioningly, without choice and without fear, the rescued fragment before all eyes and in the light of a sincere mood.
It is to show its vibration, its colour, its form and through its movement, its form, and its colour, reveal the substance of its truth disclose its inspiring secret: the stress and passion within the core of each convincing moment.
In a singleminded attempt of that kind, if one be deserving and fortunate, one may perchance attain to such clearness of sincerity that at last the presented vision of regret or pity, of terror or mirth, shall awaken in the hearts of the beholders that feeling of unavoidable solidarity of the solidarity in mysterious origin, in toil, in joy, in hope, in uncertain fate, which binds men to each other and all mankind to the visible world.


It is evident that he who, rightly or wrongly, holds by the convictions expressed above cannot be faithful to any one of the temporary formulas of his craft.
The enduring part of them the truth which each only imperfectly veils should abide with him as the most precious of his possessions, but they all: Realism, Romanticism, Naturalism, even the unofficial sentimentalism which, like the poor, is exceedingly difficult to get rid of all these gods must, after a short period of fellowship, abandon him even on the very threshold of the temple to the stammerings of his conscience and to the outspoken consciousness of the difficulties of his work.
In that uneasy solitude the supreme cry of Art for Art, even, loses the exciting ring of its apparent immorality, It sounds far off. It has ceased to be a cry, and is heard only as a whisper, often incomprehensible, but at times, and faintly, encouraging.


Sometimes, stretched at ease in the shade of a roadside tree, we watch the motions of a labourer in a distant field, and after a time, begin to wonder languidly as to what the fellow may be at.
We watch the movements of his body, the waving of his arms, we see him bend down, stand up, hesitate, begin again.
It may add to the charm of an idle hour to be told the purpose of his exertions, If we know he is trying to lift a stone, to dig a ditch, to uproot a stump, we look with a more real interest at his efforts we are disposed to condone the jar of his agitation upon the restfulness of the landscape and even, if in a brotherly frame of mind, we may bring ourselves to forgive his failure.
We understood his object, and, after all, the fellow has tried, and perhaps he had not the strength, and perhaps he had not the knowledge.
We forgive, go on our way and forget,

And so it is with the workman of art, Art is long and life is short, and success is very far off, And thus, doubtful of strength to travel so far, we talk a little about the aim the aim of art, which, like life itself, is inspiring, difficult obscured by mists.
It is not in the clear logic of a triumphant conclusion it is not in the unveiling of one of those heartless secrets which are called the Laws of Nature.
It is not less great, but only more difficult,

To arrest, for the space of a breath, the hands busy about the work of the earth, and compel men entranced by the sight of distant goals to glance for a moment at the surrounding vision of form and colour, of sunshine and shadows to make them pause for a look, for a sigh, for a smile such is the aim, difficult and evanescent, and reserved only for a very few to achieve.
But sometimes, by the deserving and the fortunate, even that task is accomplished, And when it is accomplished behold! all the truth of life is there: a moment of vision, a sigh, a smile and the return to an eternal rest.


, J. C. .