Heart of Darkness (Norton Critical Edition) / Edition 3

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Overview

A masterpiece of twentieth-century writing, Heart of Darkness (1902) exposes the tenuous fabric that holds "civilization" together and the brutal horror at the center of European colonialism. Conrad's crowning achievement recounts Marlow's physical and psychological journey deep into the heart of the Belgian Congo in search of the mysterious trader Kurtz.

Joyce Carol Oates on Joseph Conrad's Heart of Darkness:

Heart of Darkness has had an influence that goes beyond the specifically literary. This parable of a man's 'heart of darkness' dramatized in the alleged 'Dark Continent' of Africa transcended its late Victorian era to acquire the stature of one of the great, if troubling, visionary works of western civilization."
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What People Are Saying

Joyce Carol Oates
One of the great, if troubling, visionary works of Western civilization.
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Product Details

  • ISBN-13: 9780393955521
  • Publisher: Norton, W. W. & Company, Inc.
  • Publication date: 10/1/1987
  • Series: Norton Critical Editions Series
  • Edition description: Older Edition
  • Edition number: 3
  • Pages: 420
  • Product dimensions: 5.08 (w) x 8.32 (h) x 0.83 (d)

Meet the Author

Joseph Conrad
Paul B. Armstrong is Dean of the College and Professor of English at Brown University. He is the author of Play and the Politics of Reading: The Social Uses of Modernist Form, Conflicting Readings: Variety and Validity in Interpretation, The Challenge of Bewilderment: Understanding and Representation in James, Conrad, and Ford and The Phenomenology of Henry James. He is the editor of the Norton Critical Edition of E.M. Forster’s Howards End.

Biography

Joseph Conrad (originally Józef Teodor Konrad Nalecz Korzeniowski) was born in the Ukraine in 1857 and grew up under Tsarist autocracy. His parents, ardent Polish patriots, died when he was a child, following their exile for anti-Russian activities, and he came under the protection of his tradition-conscious uncle, Thaddeus Bobrowski, who watched over him for the next twenty-five years. In 1874 Bobrowski conceded to his nephew's passionate desire to go to sea, and Conrad travelled to Marseilles, where he served in French merchant vessels before joining a British ship in 1878 as an apprentice.

In 1886 he obtained British nationality and his Master's certificate in the British Merchant Service. Eight years later he left the sea to devote himself to writing, publishing his first novel, Almayer's Folly, in 1895. The following year he married Jessie George and eventually settled in Kent, where he produced within fifteen years such modern classics as Youth, Heart of Darkness, Lord Jim, Typhoon, Nostromo, The Secret Agent and Under Western Eyes. He continued to write until his death in 1924. Today Conrad is generally regarded as one of the greatest writers of fiction in English -- his third language. He once described himself as being concerned "with the ideal value of things, events and people" in the Preface to The Nigger of the Narcissus he defined his task as "by the power of the written word ... before all, to make you see."

Author biography courtesy of Penguin Group (USA).

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    1. Also Known As:
      Jósef Teodor Konrad Walecz Korzeniowski (real name)
    1. Date of Birth:
      December 3, 1857
    2. Place of Birth:
      Berdiczew, Podolia, Russia
    1. Date of Death:
      August 3, 1924
    2. Place of Death:
      Bishopsbourne, Kent, England

Read an Excerpt

The Nellie, a cruising yawl, swung to her anchor without a flutter of the sails, and was at rest. The flood had made, the wind was nearly calm, and being bound down the river, the only thing for it was to come to and wait for the turn of the tide.

The sea-reach of the Thames stretched before us like the beginning of an interminable waterway. In the offing the sea and the sky were welded together without a joint, and in the luminous space the tanned sails of the barges drifting up with the tide seemed to stand still in red clusters of canvas sharply peaked, with gleams of varnished sprits. A haze rested on the low shores that ran out to sea in vanishing flatness. The air was dark above Gravesend, and farther back still seemed condensed into a mournful gloom, brooding motionless over the biggest, and the greatest, town on earth.

The Director of Companies was our captain and our host. We four affectionately watched his back as he stood in the bows looking to seaward. On the whole river there was nothing that looked half so nautical. He resembled a pilot, which to a seaman is trustworthiness personified. It was difficult to realize his work was not out there in the luminous estuary, but behind him, within the brooding gloom.
Between us there was, as I have already said somewhere, the bond of the sea. Besides holding our hearts together through long periods of separation, it had the effect of making us tolerant of each other's yarns--and even convictions. The Lawyer--the best of old fellows&mdashhad, because of his many years and many virtues, the only cushion on deck, and was lying on the only rug. The Accountant had brought out already a box of dominoes, and wastoying architecturally with the bones. Marlow sat cross-legged right aft, leaning against the mizzen-mast. He had sunken cheeks, a yellow complexion, a straight back, an ascetic aspect, and, with his arms dropped, the palms of hands outwards, resembled an idol. The Director, satisfied the anchor had good hold, made his way aft and sat down amongst us. We exchanged a few words lazily. Afterwards there was silence on board the yacht. For some reason or other we did not begin that game of dominoes. We felt meditative, and fit for nothing but placid staring. The day was ending in a serenity of still and exquisite brilliance. The water shone pacifically; the sky, without a speck, was a benign immensity of unstained light; the very mist on the Essex marshes was like a gauzy and radiant fabric, hung from the wooded rises inland, and draping the low shores in diaphanous folds. Only the gloom to the west, brooding over the upper reaches, became more sombre every minute, as if angered by the approach of the sun.

And at last, in its curved and imperceptible fall, the sun sank low, and from glowing white changed to a dull red without rays and without heat, as if about to go out suddenly, stricken to death by the touch of that gloom brooding over a crowd of men.

Forthwith a change came over the waters, and the serenity became less brilliant but more profound. The old river in its broad reach rested unruffled at the decline of day, after ages of good service done to the race that peopled its banks, spread out in the tranquil dignity of a waterway leading to the uttermost ends of the earth. We looked at the venerable stream not in the vivid flush of a short day that comes and departs for ever, but in the august light of abiding memories. And indeed nothing is easier for a man who has, as the phrase goes, 'followed the sea' with reverence and affection, than to evoke the great spirit of the past upon the lower reaches of the Thames. The tidal current runs to and fro in its unceasing service, crowded with memories of men and ships it had borne to the rest of home or to the battles of the sea. It had known and served all the men of whom the nation is proud, from Sir Francis Drake to Sir John Franklin, knights all, titled and untitled--the great knights-errant of the sea. It had borne all the ships whose names are like jewels flashing in the night of time, from the Golden Hind returning with her round flanks full of treasure, to be visited by the Queen's Highness and thus pass out of the gigantic tale, to the Erebus and Terror, bound on other conquests--and that never returned. It had known the ships and the men. They had sailed from Deptford, from Greenwich, from Erith--the adventurers and the settlers; kings' ships and the ships of men on 'Change; captains, admirals, the dark 'interlopers' of the Eastern trade, and the commissioned 'generals' of East India fleets. Hunters for gold or pursuers of fame, they all had gone out on that stream, bearing the sword, and often the torch, messengers of the might within the land, bearers of a spark from the sacred fire. What greatness had not floated on the ebb of that river into the mystery of an unknown earth! . . . The dreams of men, the seed of commonwealths, the germs of empires.

The sun set; the dusk fell on the stream, and lights began to appear along the shore. The Chapman lighthouse, a three-legged thing erect on a mud-flat, shone strongly. Lights of ships moved in the fairway&mdasha great stir of lights going up and going down. And farther west on the upper reaches the place of the monstrous town was still marked ominously on the sky, a brooding gloom in sunshine, a lurid glare under the stars.

'And this also,' said Marlow suddenly, 'has been one of the dark places of the earth.'

He was the only man of us who still 'followed the sea.' The worst that could be said of him was that he did not represent his class. He was a seaman, but he was a wanderer, too, while most seamen lead, if one may so express it, a sedentary life. Their minds are of the stay-at-home order, and their home is always with them--the ship; and so is their country--the sea. One ship is very much like another, and the sea is always the same. In the immutability of their surroundings the foreign shores, the foreign faces, the changing immensity of life, glide past, veiled not by a sense of mystery but by a slightly disdainful ignorance; for there is nothing mysterious to a seaman unless it be the sea itself, which is the mistress of his existence and as inscrutable as Destiny. For the rest, after his hours of work, a casual stroll or a casual spree on shore suffices to unfold for him the secret of a whole continent, and generally he finds the secret not worth knowing. 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.

His remark did not seem at all surprising. It was just like Marlow. It was accepted in silence. No one took the trouble to grunt even; and presently he said, very slow--

'I was thinking of very old times, when the Romans first came here, nineteen hundred years ago--the other day . . . Light came out of this river since--you say Knights? Yes; but it is like a running blaze on a plain, like a flash of lightning in the clouds. We live in the flicker--may it last as long as the old earth keeps rolling! But darkness was here yesterday. Imagine the feelings of a commander of a fine--what d'ye call 'em?--trireme in the Mediterranean, ordered suddenly to the north; run overland across the Gauls in a hurry; put in charge of one of these craft the legionaries--a wonderful lot of handy men they must have been, too--used to build, apparently by the hundred, in a month or two, if we may believe what we read. Imagine him here--the very end of the world, a sea the colour of lead, a sky the colour of smoke, a kind of ship about as rigid as a concertina&mdashand going up this river with stores, or orders, or what you like. Sand-banks, marshes, forests, savages,--precious little to eat fit for a civilized man, nothing but Thames water to drink. No Falernian wine here, no going ashore. Here and there a military camp lost in a wilderness, like a needle in a bundle of hay--cold, fog, tempests, disease, exile, and death--death skulking in the air, in the water, in the bush. They must have been dying like flies here. Oh, yes--he did it. Did it very well, too, no doubt, and without thinking much about it either, except afterwards to brag of what he had done through his time, perhaps. They were men enough to face the darkness. And perhaps he was cheered by keeping his eye on a chance of promotion to the fleet at Ravenna by-and-by, if he had good friends in Rome and survived the awful climate. Or think of a decent young citizen in a toga--perhaps too much dice, you know--coming out here in the train of some prefect, or tax-gatherer, or trader even, to mend his fortunes. Land in a swamp, march through the woods, and in some inland post feel the savagery, the utter savagery, had closed round him,--hall that mysterious life of the wilderness that stirs in the forest, in the jungles, in the hearts of wild men. There's no initiation either into such mysteries. He has to live in the midst of the incomprehensible, which is also detestable. And it has a fascination, too, that goes to work upon him. The fascination of the abomination--you know, imagine the growing regrets, the longing to escape, the powerless disgust, the surrender, the hate.'

He paused.

'Mind,' he began again, lifting one arm from the elbow, the palm of the hand outwards, so that, with his legs folded before him, he had the pose of a Buddha preaching in European clothes and without a lotus-flower--'Mind, none of us would feel exactly like this. What saves us is efficiency--the devotion to efficiency. But these chaps were not much account, really. They were no colonists; their administration was merely a squeeze, and nothing more, I suspect. They were conquerors, and for that you want only brute force--nothing to boast of, when you have it, since your strength is just an accident arising from the weakness of others. They grabbed what they could get for the sake of what was to be got. It was just robbery with violence, aggravated murder on a great scale, and men going at it blind'as is very proper for those who tackle a darkness. The conquest of the earth, which mostly means the taking it away from those who have a different complexion or slightly flatter noses than ourselves, is not a pretty thing when you look into it too much. What redeems it is the idea only. An idea at the back of it; not a sentimental pretence but an idea; and an unselfish belief in the idea--something you can set up, and bow down before, and offer a sacrifice to . . .'

He broke off. Flames glided in the river, small green flames, red flames, white flames, pursuing, overtaking, joining, crossing each other--then separating slowly or hastily. The traffic of the great city went on in the deepening night upon the sleepless river. 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.

'I don't want to bother you much with what happened to me personally,' he began, showing in this remark the weakness of many tellers of tales who seem so often unaware of what their audience would best like to hear; 'yet to understand the effect of it on me you ought to know how I got out there, what I saw, how I went up that river to the place where I first met the poor chap. It was the farthest point of navigation and the culminating point of my experience. It seemed somehow to throw a kind of light on everything about me--and into my thoughts. It was sombre enough, too--and pitiful--not extraordinary in any way--not very clear either. No, not very clear. And yet it seemed to throw a kind of light.

'I had then, as you remember, just returned to London after a lot of Indian Ocean, Pacific, China Seas--a regular dose of the East--six years or so, and I was loafing about, hindering you fellows in your work and invading your homes, just as though I had got a heavenly mission to civilize you. It was very fine for a time, but after a bit I did get tired of resting. Then I began to look for a ship--I should think the hardest work on earth. But the ships wouldn't even look at me. And I got tired of that game, too.

'Now when I was a little chap I had a passion for maps. I would look for hours at South America, or Africa, or Australia, and lose myself in all the glories of exploration. At that time there were many blank spaces on the earth, and when I saw one that looked particularly inviting on a map (but they all look that) I would put my finger on it and say, When I grow up I will go there. The North Pole was one of these places, I remember. Well, I haven't been there yet, and shall not try now. The glamour's off. Other places were scattered about the Equator, and in every sort of latitude all over the two hemispheres. I have been in some of them, and . . . well, we won't talk about that. But there was one yet--the biggest, the most blank, so to speak--that I had a hankering after.

'True, by this time it was not a blank space any more. It had got filled since my boyhood with rivers and lakes and names. It had ceased to be a blank space of delightful mystery--a white patch for a boy to dream gloriously over. It had become a place of darkness. But there was in it one river especially, a mighty big river, that you could see on the map, resembling an immense snake uncoiled, with its head in the sea, its body at rest curving afar over a vast country, and its tail lost in the depths of the land. And as I looked at the map of it in a shop-window, it fascinated me as a snake would a bird--a silly little bird. Then I remembered there was a big concern, a Company for trade on that river. Dash it all! I thought to myself, they can't trade without using some kind of craft on that lot of fresh water--steamboats! Why shouldn't I try to get charge of one? I went on along Fleet Street, but could not shake off the idea. The snake had charmed me.
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Table of Contents

About the Series
About This Volume
Introduction: Biographical and Historical Contexts 3
The Complete Text 17
A Critical History of Heart of Darkness 99
Reader-Response Criticism and Heart of Darkness 115
A Reader-Response Perspective: Heart of Darkness and the Politics of Displacement 131
Feminist and Gender Criticism and Heart of Darkness 148
A Feminist and Gender Perspective: "Too Beautiful Altogether": Ideologies of Gender and Empire in Heart of Darkness 169
Deconstruction and Heart of Darkness 185
A Deconstructive Perspective: Heart of Darkness Revisited 206
The New Historicism and Heart of Darkness 221
A New Historicist Perspective: Preserving and Keeping Order by Killing Time in Heart of Darkness 239
Cultural Criticism and Heart of Darkness 258
A Cultural Perspective: Heart of Darkness: Anti-Imperialism, Racism, or Impressionism? 277
Glossary of Critical and Theoretical Terms 299
About the Contributors 313
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Sort by: Showing all of 10 Customer Reviews
  • Anonymous

    Posted July 30, 2004

    Life is to be expored ,to get meaning out of it!

    I remember when i was a student ,i heard my teacher telling me she read .Heart of Darkness but never understood it!It was surprizing to hear a teacher ,give such a comment as any one who succeeds to become a teacher at a Masters level should have good comprehension and a grasp on literary works. Years later I decided to read the book on my own I began and at first felt ,that i wont be able to finish it.......... but my determination to be a well read person urged me to complete it, somehow. I completed it but was at a loss as my feelings did not turn out to be different from that of my teacher. There are two characters in the novel Marlowe and Kurtz ,a ship ,some known and unknown shores,white men and niggers and the rest is all misty...............Marlowe is connected to Kurtz long before he actually appears on the scene.These characters and the journey carry some symbolic meaning and present a peculiar idea.This novel reminded me of another novel by Virginia Woolfe ...Mrs Dalloway which is equally abstract but that belongs to the category of stream of consciousness novel, which is an exterme form of the psychological novel and follows a technique which itself , explains its vaguness.......................... Heart of Darkness is a short novel and. Its short narrative also shows that the writer delebriately did not indulge in creating many scenes and introducing many characters as he just wanted to present one particular idea ............some dark secret or sin perhaps that lurks in peoples mind or is prevalant in society,,,,,, which can be perceived and effect, only a hypersensitive writer................Whatever the hidden meaing underlying Conrads novel......... one thing is for sure Heart of Darkness is an out of the ordinary novel which presents an idea which though seemingly incomprehenible is in reality mysteriusly Sublime!I intend to read it again a little later in order to extract more meaning out of it and i am sure once its completely understood it should be given five stars. .

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  • Anonymous

    Posted September 1, 2003

    Definitely NOT recommended for light reading!

    HEART OF DARKNESS is one of the richest books in literature. However, it is also one of the most difficult to wade through and understand for its true value. Many readers of this novel will not appreciate it for its underlying irony and metaphor for a greater picture. It is an incredible work of art, but one that MUST NOT be read without careful attention to detail and a love for deciphering symbolism, metaphor, allegory, and any other lit term you can think of.

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  • Anonymous

    Posted September 8, 2003

    Terrible

    Contrived and pompous, I could not get past the first section. I understand that there is supposed to be a lot of symbolism here, but when the story moves along at an absolutely mundane pace, what's the point? If you want an allegory, read Plato's Republic.

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  • Anonymous

    Posted September 18, 2003

    A Real Dark but Awesome Novel!

    This is one of the best novels ever written!! I first read this book my senior year of high school and after three months of intense reading and discerning the deeper meaning of words I truly came to really love this book. The story of Marlow¿s journey down the Nile River leading to the ¿heart of darkness¿ engulfs the reader in savagery and the cruelty of humankind. Not only does Marlow find out what the true ¿heart of darkness¿ is but the reader will also get to develop his/her own theory of how they envision the true dark side of humanity. Heart of Darkness is a deep novel that explores the inhumanity and greed of individuals. This book is a truly great piece of literature that should be read by everyone who appreciates the dark side of humanity. Throughout the book Conrad reveals to the reader the lust for power and control that people wish to possess. This book should be read with attention to precise details and related symbols. Heart of Darkness is for any reader who likes to interpret symbols, metaphors, allegories, diction or any other literary device. Conrad truly does convey a sense of how the desire for power and control leads to a life of insanity and madness. Even though this book was written over 100 years ago its themes of light/dark, good/evil, civilized/savage are still present in today¿s world and can be related to events that occur all over the world. Conrad does an excellent job of demeaning and reducing humankind to a sort of savagery that symbolizes a deeper meaning in the book. The tone that the author sets of darkness helps surround the reader and draws them deeper into the novel allowing them to discover the intense reality and truth that is hidden within the story.

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  • Anonymous

    Posted July 5, 2003

    It was dull in high school, but brilliant 17 years later

    Those who don't see the evil and horror in human nature in this novel, you need to grow up. The trip down the congo is a metaphor into the darkness of our own hearts -treating another race like dirt and raping their land. If you don't see it, you must have a heart as blind and cold as the King of Belgium. Enough said.

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  • Anonymous

    Posted October 16, 2002

    Not just a dry history

    More than just a history of the often horrible things that occur during colonization of all too foreign places, this book shows the true nature of man - darkness. The book is truly a classic and a great work in literature for those who want to see the symbolism and its applications to man. I would especially recommend this book to those who enjoy reading Golding's works like "Lord of the Flies".

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  • Anonymous

    Posted November 3, 2002

    It is simply the most astonishing work of literature I ever ecnountered in my life.

    I recommend you to at least get a glimpse of what is inside. (trust me you wont regret it.)

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  • Anonymous

    Posted November 19, 2001

    A True Classic in Every Sence

    A timeless masterpeice that shows us the depths of the human heart and soul.

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  • Anonymous

    Posted October 15, 2001

    The Horror, the Horror!

    Waste of time. Waste of money. Disappointing. What was the point? We must have missed something, because we didn't get much out of this 'great classic.' If Conrad had something important to say about human nature - why did he have to torture us with that slow, painful, boring trip up the river? consensus: Class will consider forgiving teacher for making them read this if she shows Wizard of Oz in class.

    0 out of 1 people found this review helpful.

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  • Anonymous

    Posted May 13, 2009

    No text was provided for this review.

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