James Baldwin, “Everybody’s Protest Novel”

1949

The contemporary novel of Negro experience only repeats what Uncle Tom’s Cabin did – a moral rectitude that says “This is terrible! You should be ashamed of yourselves!” The novels of oppression, on the other hand [probably Native Son?] have a raging paranoiac quality that only reinforces the stereotypes they protest. Sentimentality is the enemy of real lived experience. All of Stowe’s black characters are but lovable types – only George, Eliza, and Tom are real people to us, and the first two are “as white as she can make them.” This is only a sort of fear of damnation on the part of the author. But do we really want a novel so didactic, filled with “hardworking ciphers,” rather than real people? In Bigger Thomas’ murder and rape, in his death that is a sort of life because a reclamation of manhood, Baldwin finds the evil twin of the sentimental novel. If Stowe is scolding and exhorting us, Wright is cursing and damning us. The protest novel puts too much on the categories imposed on us – we need not battle for our humanity with the bestial qualities we are told we have (Bigger) – we have only to accept our humanity, and to move towards transcendence.

Ralph Ellison, “The Shadow & the Act

1964

In this short essay, Ellison considers several new films about Negroes. He compares the adaptation of Faulkner’s Intruder in the Dust to the classic D.W. Griffith Birth of a Nation, the racist film of “predigested dramatic experience.” We talk about Griffith’s film as technical advancement, but like naval technology, it was used in the service of degrading Negro life. How did this country square democratic ideals and racism? First by denying the Negro humanity, and now it is by working out white questions about that humanity in films that are ostensibly “about” Negroes, but are not for them at all.

Hollywood is but “the shadow” of “the act” that is real racism. It manipulates what is already an extant cultural image. These recent films make explicit how Hollywood focuses on whether Negroes should ‘pass,’ whether they should intermarry, and whether they have ruined the south – white questions for a white audience which still do not afford black characters full human rights.

One of the special dramatizations is of ‘passing,’ which dramatizes how the black community rejects mulattoes, which is simply not true, Ellison argues. Furthermore, it paints the black community as a locus one is condemned to. It would seem in Hollywood that “only white Negroes suffer – or is it merely the white corpuscles of their blood?”

Ellison is particularly fascinated by how moving these pictures are, especially to whites – they are cathartic, they touch a deep nerve despite “their slickest devices.” As an antidote, Ellison suggests watching the films in Harlem, where audiences laugh with a disjointed experience of how far the characters on screen seem from themselves. “Each of us must become the keeper of his own,” Ellison concludes.

Shoshanna Felman, “What Does A Woman Want?”

1993

Felman wonders whether feminists can reclaim Freud’s famous question in a letter to Marie Bonaparte: “What does a woman want?” The question is always male – a bemusement in the face of women’s resistance to their place in patriarchy, but can it be reclaimed? If so, what are its affordances? In examining the male texts of Balzac and Freud, Felman sees a common fascination with female resistance – to be appropriated, interpreted, or recognized.

Felman tells the story of how Simone de Beauvoir began The Second Sex not as a feminist, but as a woman situating herself, first through the eyes of others, then through her own eyes. de Beauvoir tells Sartre that she became a feminist less through writing than through the existence of her book in a community of women around the world. This idea of becoming a woman, becoming a feminist, is vital to Johnson. It is also, as Rich says, a re-vision of the past.

Felman’s chapter on Freud begins with Juliet Mitchell’s argument that Freudian psychoanalysis is not sexist. Felman agrees that psychoanalysis has a number of useful valences for feminist reflection, but does not think Freud is immune from mistakes and oversights that can be critiqued through a feminist lens. Ultimately, she argues that femininity is “the navel of psychoanalysis: a nodal point of significant resistance in the text of the ongoing psychoanalytic dream of understanding; a navel that, though ‘unplumbable,’ is also positively… [the] ‘point of contact with the unknown’… dynamic play… with its own self-difference” 120.

In the final chapter, Felman considers Woolf, de Beauvoir, and Rich as “autobiographers.” She begins by claiming the Interpretation of Dreams as Freud’s own autobiography. Freud’s value is of “a structure of address inclusive of its otherness,” but she begins to turn in her own autobiographical consideration away from men entirely. Like Woolf, she attempts to correct this: she is speaking to women with the knowledge that she is being overheard – she wants to make room for men, too (like A Room of One’s Own). Rich first accuses Woolf of an oversight in this sense. Felman encourages us to “read autobiographically,” “giving testimony to the unsuspected, unexpected ‘feminine resistance’ in the text” 133. It is a practice of “experiencing this feminine resistance as a joint effect of interaction among literature, autobiography, and theory, insofar as all three modes resist, precisely, one another” 133. Thus we must read ourselves with theory’s tools as a resistance to theory – a similar formulation as art and autonomy for Adorno.

Felman points out that in Rich’s famous poem, “Diving Into the Wreck,” the speaker says, “I am he, I am she,” breaking down the very binary that Rich uses to resist Woolf’s address. The poetry is “autobiography and resistance to autobiography,” as Woolf’s is as well, and as Felman notes, de Beauvoir’s too. Woolf’s way to autobiography is via the detour of fiction – she cannot be named in A Room of One’s Own – she is “Mary Beton, Mary Seton, Mary Carmichael or by any name you please.” (This indeterminacy is also like Rich.) Thus Woolf births her own autobiographer – Mary – who allows her to look back to her mother and mother’s mother and Judith Shakespeare, and forward to the future as well. The “splitting of consicousness” she describes, also characteristic of Emily Dickinson and Doris Lessing, is genealogical as well as personal, then. The real child of Woolf’s autobiography is the “writer’s certainty” that things will be better in 100 years.

Barbara Johnson, “The Feminist Difference”

1998

Feminism is no longer one thing, Johnson begins. It speaks multivocally and with contradictions. “Double consciousness” in W.E.B. DuBois’ terms is made into a political problem when Freud puts “race” in quotation marks. In the complex interweaving of culture, gender, race, class, and psychoanalysis, “literature is important for feminism because literature can best be understood as the place where impasses can be kept and opened for examination… as a mode of cultural work” 13.

Johnson first examines Hawthorne’s “The Birthmark,” Gilman’s “The Yellow Wallpaper,” and Freud’s “Case of Hysteria” as locations of the figure (the outline or form, for Kant) and ground (the attention, or content, for de Beauvoir). The girl who is the “blank page” in Irigaray is here imagined as the “background” or “negative space” (think of Woolf’s Lily Briscoe). Psychoanalysis would like to suture subject and background neatly. In Hawthorne, the background changes, while the mark remains constant – their relation changes because the background does. In Gilman, the girl creates a form out of the texture of the background (wallpaper). The cost of achieving “definitive femininity” in Freud’s terms is the subject of both stories. What these texts engender is a coda in which the author or narrator steps back as reader to interpret the work. But the image of the body as “blank page implies that the woman’s body is white” 35. The problem of the black woman in American literature is one of Topsy having no origin and Dilsey having no end.

In “Muteness Envy,” Johnson considers Keats’ urn as a silent woman – “thou still unravished bride of quietness.” The chiasmus “Beauty is truth, truth beauty” is a cancelling silence as well. The moment of the poem is the freezing right before “ravishing” – rape or ecstasy, we cannot be sure. Women are silent about pleasure or violation, Johnson argues. She reads the silence of Campion’s film The Piano as productive precisely because it can be read as rape or pleasure – it elicits polarized opinions. Feminism disrupts not because it speaks where women should be silent, but because it introduces an interference with male self-pity, which keeps attention and interest on the subjects, rather than the objects, of patriarchy.

In “The Postmodern in Feminism,” Johnson turns to semantics. Is postmodern a ‘good’ word? If postmodernism can be described by intense wordplay, decentered subjectivity, and language as social construction, we should consider in the postmodern era how legal language constructs women. In the indeterminacy of language, how can we speak of “women” if there “is uncertainty about what the word ‘woman’ means?” For Johnson, it is this very “incoherence of woman” that is “encountered in the engagement with the heterogeneity” of real women. Indeterminacy is the result of material existence, not the occlusion of it. She reiterates Cixous’ desire to stop talking of women in a reproduction of the binary in which “women are still standing facing men” 194. We must place difference among women, rather than between the genders, as if it were a war. The difficulty of this challenge constitutes the future of feminism.

 

Eric Naiman, “Nabokov, Perversely”

2010

Naiman’s book is premised on the idea that “the ‘good reader’ of Nabokov must be alert to the hidden meanings suggested by all sorts of seemingly chance or inconsequential details in the text; he must work to distort the normal meaning of language” 2. One of the most refreshing experiences of reading Naiman’s book is the feeling of being liberated from the enslaving attitude of genuflection so many critics of Nabokov have indulged in over the years. Naiman reads closely, carefully, and responsibly, but he also reads Nabokov’s instructions to us themselves as riddles and contradictions, rather than as orders we must follow blindly. Still, Naiman says that his book is about “loving Nabokov as he wanted to be loved. It is also about why it is difficult to do so” 14. 

Nabokov invites us to read perversely, but also ridicules the too-close reader, placing our anticipation in a fearful and anxious place. Nabokov naturalizes “perverse” forms of reading. Lolita, for instance, is “a perverse book, if by ‘perverse’ we mean a book that induces readers to express symbolically and vicariously impulses they normally censor and suppress,” he quotes Sarah Herbold 10. Perversion in the Freudian sense is the lingering over intermediate objects or regions of the body that are not directly involved in genital sex – this is also, however, the erotic. 

The chapters of Naiman’s book exploit the Shakespearean resonance of “nothing” as female genitalia in Lolita and moves on to queerness and aggression in reading Pale Fire and the use of con and chat in Pnin, an argument that has defined my reading of D.H. Lawrence’s Lady Chatterley’s Lover. 

Virginia Woolf, “A Room of One’s Own”

1929

Woolf begins her treatise, as she does so many of her novels, in medias res: “But, you may say, we asked you to speak about women and fiction – what has that got to do with a room of one’s own?” 3. The answer, for Woolf, is quite simple – in order for women to write, they must have the material conditions to write – 500 a year and a room of their own to write in. As in “Modern Fiction,” she says, “I give you my thoughts as they came to me” 7.

She records the horror she caused at a university by being off the garden path. She is refused from the library because she has no letter of entry. She records the evening meal for the men, with rich wines and puddings,

“And thus by degrees was lit, halfway down the spine, which is the seat of the soul, not that hard little electric light which we call brilliance, as it pops in and out upon our lips, but the more profound, subtle and subterranean glow, which is the rich yellow flame of rational intercourse. No need to hurry. No need to sparkle. No need to be anybody but oneself… how good life seemed” 11.

She compares this to the women’s meal, at which the scholar Jane Harris is in attendance. Everything is plain – broth, beef and potatoes, and dry biscuits, no wine. “One cannot think well, love well, sleep well, if one has not dined well,” she insists 18. Women do not individually or as intellectual groups have the tradition of “luxury and privacy and space” that men do 24. Though men write many books about women, women do not write about men. She feels “humiliated” by the titles and categorizing topics available to describe women.

“Women have served all these centuries as looking-glasses possessing the magic and delicious power of reflecting the figure of man at twice its natural size” 35 [think about Lacan’s mirror, the film screen, suture, realism, etc!] 35.

“Mirrors are essential to all violent and heroic action” 36.

Woolf abolishes anger from herself, and says (like Eliot would of self-effacement in “Tradition and the Individual Talent”), that one must purify oneself of anger and resentment to write. Charlotte Bronte falls victim to this, Woolf claims, which we see in her writing. She seeks a Kantian disinterestedness: “freedom to think of things in themselves” 39.

Of the vote and money Woolf has inherited, money is unquestionably more helpful, she says. She imagines a world where women can take any occupation, once “womanhood has ceased to be a protected occupation” 40.

“In a hundred years, I thought… women will have ceased to be the protected sex. Logically they will take part in all the activities and exertions that were once denied them. The nursemaid will heave coal. The shopwoman will drive an engine. All assumptions founded on the facts observed when women were the protected sex will have disappeared” 40.

Woolf tries to imagine the conditions of women, beginning in the Elizabethan era. Why did women write nothing in the age of so many great male writers?

“Fiction is like a spider’s web, attached ever so lightly perhaps, but still attached to life at all four corners” 41.

Woolf points out that in literature, woman is central, whereas practically, she is insignificant to society:

“If woman had no existence save in the fiction written by men, one would imagine her a person of the utmost importance; very various; heroic and mean; splendid and sordid; infinitely beautiful and hideous in the extreme; as great as a man, some think even greater. But this is woman in fiction” 43.

Woolf uses the power of fiction to begin to imagine woman as more than “a vessel.” This she plays out by imagining a sister for Shakespeare: Judith. She would try to write against the obstacles of domestic labor and a lack of education. Eventually she would become pregnant and commit suicide, Woolf imagines:

“It would have been impossible, completely and entirely, for any woman to have written the plays of Shakespeare in the age of Shakespeare” 46.

“Genius like Shakespeare’s is not born among labouring, uneducated, servile people” 49.

Woolf also claims women are less likely to want to impose their values on others, as is the colonial fashion 50. But society will not pay for what it does not want. It will question and suppress women’s writing. It will suggest that the most intelligent woman is inferior to the average man. She considers women like Dorothy Osborne, who never wrote anything but letters, thinking it was outside their domain.

In the late 18th century, however, “middle-class women began to write” for profit 65. Austen she places above Bronte, who was undoubtedly a genius, because her writing is emptied out of anger and hate 68. Again she discusses a mirror:

“If one shuts one’s eyes and thinks of the novel as a whole, it would seem to be a creation owning a certain looking-glass likeness to life, though of course with simplifications and distortions innumerable. At any rate, it is a structure leaving a shape on the mind’s eye, built now in squares, now pagoda-shaped, now throwing out wings and arcades, now solidly compact and domed… This shape, I thought, starts in one the kind of emotion that is appropriate to it… the shape is not made by the relation of stone to stone, but by the relation of human being to human being” 71.

“A book is not made of sentences laid end to end, but of sentences built, if an image helps, into arcades or domes” 77.

Woolf holds to some gender essentialism akin to that of de Beauvoir:

“For we think through our mothers if we are women” 76.

“The book has somehow to be adapted to the body, and at a venture one would say that women’s books should be shorter, more concentrated than those of men, and framed so that they do not need long hours of steady and uninterrupted work. For interruptions there always will be. Again, the nerves that feed the brain would seem to differ in men and women”78.

“Let us admit in the privacy of our own society that these things sometimes happen. Sometimes women do like women” 82. / “If Chloe likes Olivia and Mary Carmichael knows how to express it, she will light a torch in that vast chamber where nobody has yet been” 84.

“A man is terribly hampered and partial in his knowledge of women, as a woman in her knowledge of men” 83.

There is no history of women by women to corroborate this, however. The strength of Mary Carmichael’s writing, which has “broken up Jane Austen’s sentence,” is that

“she wrote as a woman, but as a woman who has forgotten that she is a woman, so that her pages were full of that curious sexual quality which comes only when sex is unconscious of itself… she was not a skimmer of surfaces merely, but had looked beneath into the depths” 93.

“What does one mean by the unity of the mind, I pondered… if one is a woman one is often surprised by a sudden splitting of of consciousness… when from being the natural inheritor of civilization, she becoems, on the contrary, outside of it, alien and critical” 97.

“Intellectual freedom depends on material things” 108.

“For the reading of [great] books seems to perform a curious couching operation on the senses; one sees more intensely afterwards; the world seems bared of its covering and given an intenser life” 110.

It is because of this that the efforts to write the Judith Shakespeare within us are worth the effort, Woolf concludes.

E.M. Forster, “Aspects of the Novel”

1927

For Forster, the novel has not been adequately critiqued, partly because the tools we have to critique it are disorganized and problematic.

Forster likens Woolf to Sterne – both are “fantasists” who “start with a little object, take a flutter from it, and settle on it again.” He does this to undermine chronology in literary study. He refers to Eliot’s tradition but says the novel is spongier and more difficult to pin down. Its seven traits are story, characters, plot, fantasy, prophecy, pattern, and rhythm.

Story: We live life by two times: actual and valued. The good novel succeeds in creating suspense for us – the desire to know what happens. This is important because life is lived sequentially, by anticipation. War and Peace exhilarates us by extending over space as well as time. (It’s interesting that he and Henry James would disagree on this so completely, given that he critiques James, who called Tolstoy’s novel “a loose baggy monster.”)

People: Characters are not people – they are like people. They spend far too much time in love and far too little time cooking and eating. We can know these people with more perfect clairvoyance and intimacy than our own friends by the author’s words. A character is real when we feel the author knows everything about him. Dickens writes flat characters, but they vibrate with vitality in their environment and against each other. A flat character is marked through the text in the same way by one characteristic and does not change. Round characters (in James and Austen) have the capacity to live outside the pages of the book they are in. They can surprise us.

“The test of a round character is whether it is capable of surprising in a convincing way. If it never surprises, it is flat. If it does not convince, it is a flat pretending to be round. It has the incalculability of life about it—life within the pages of a book.”

Plot: Plot is a sequence of events given causality. The balance between plot and character is difficult, as the first must surprise and the second must run smooth – be believable. The reader must also have intelligence and memory to piece together facets of the reading experience across time.

Fantasy & Prophecy: Fantasy favors writers more interested in the world than the individual. Prophecy is the attendance of intangible infinity to the everyday (not the same as symbolism, with its concrete meanings).

Pattern & Rhythm: A novel’s pattern is its geometric shape – a circle, etc. The hourglass figure of The Ambassadors consists in the two characters switching places (Chad and Strether). For Forster, this pattern is too forced, achieved “at the cost of life,” and therefore “Beautifully done, but not worth doing.” If story satisfies curiosity and plot intelligence, then pattern satisfies aesthetics. Rhythm is a motif, an “almost-agent” in the text that arises at the right moments of the writer writing; rather than being planned, it “stitches the book from the inside.”

“Expansion. That is the idea the novelist must cling to. Not completion. Not rounding off but opening out. When the symphony is over we feel that the notes and tunes composing it have been liberated, they have found in the rhythm of the whole their individual freedom. Cannot the novel be like that? Is there not something of it [that can bring us to] a larger existence than was possible at the time?”

“The novelist who betrays too much interest in his own method can never be more than interesting; he has given up the creation of character and summoned us to help analyze his own mind, and a heavy drop in the emotional thermometer results.”

“All history, all our experience, teaches us that no human relationship is constant, it is as unstable as the living beings who compose it, and they must balance like jugglers if it is to remain; if it is constant it is no longer a human relationship but a social habit, the emphasis in it has passed from love to marriage.”

 

Mark Goble, “Beautiful Circuits”

2010

In this text, Mark Goble argues that modernism “encouraged a unique structure of feeling toward the technologies of art and literature – in all the specificity of their material aesthetics – which survives and flourishes as a feeling for technology in general” 25. We experienced a feverish intensifying feeling toward how and how much we used technology in everyday life, and it has lasted.

Henry James: “the compulsive indirectness that James identifies as his method – and also his sense that this indirectness is in actuality direct, straight, and the guarantor of a phenomenal immediacy – represents more than a leap of critical fancy” 39. “What James considers the major insight behind his favored ‘mode of treatment’ – that is, the discovery that the most circuitous may be experienced as the most immediate – applies with equal salience to almost everything that happens to the characters he depicts” 40. [see my entry on The Ambassadors!] Mediation – all the letters and telegrams from Mrs. Newsome – is a fantasy of connection James is interested in. This delay is doubled, since it takes a while for them to arrive and then they are not revealed to the reader for a length of time. [Could this have something to do with the sense/sensibility divide I want to set up in that novel?]

T.E. Hulme, “Romanticism & Classicism”

1911

An early proponent of imagism, in this essay Hulme advocates a poetic turn away from the excesses of Romanticism and back to something more like classicism, which shows restraint and precision. Writers must get “the exact curve of the thing” from the “zest” they have for the object at hand. Its interest in newness of metaphor and defamiliarization, in combination with an imagist reading of the restraint of the classics, trace a continuum from the Russian Formalists through Hulme to Pound’s “make it new.” Some excerpts:

Here is the root of all romanticism: that man, the individual, is an infinite reservoir of possibilities; and if you can so rearrange society by the destruction of oppressive order then these possibilities will have a chance and you will get Progress.

One can define the classical quite clearly as the exact opposite to this. Man is an extraordinarily fixed and limited animal whose nature is absolutely constant. It is only by tradition and organisation that anything decent can be got out of him.

This view was a little shaken at the time of Darwin. You remember his particular hypothesis, that new species came into existence by the cumulative effect of small variations—this seems to admit the possibility of future progress. But at the present day the contrary hypothesis makes headway in the shape of De Vries’s mutation theory, that each new species comes into existence, not gradually by the accumulation of small steps, but suddenly in a jump, a kind of sport, and that once in existence it remains absolutely fixed. This enables me to keep the classical view with an appearance of scientific backing.

Put shortly, these are the two views, then. One, that man is intrinsically good, spoilt by circumstance; and the other that he is intrinsically limited, but disciplined by order and tradition to something fairly decent. To the one party man’s nature is like a well, to the other like a bucket. The view which regards man as a well, a reservoir full of possibilities, I call the romantic; the one which regards him as a very finite and fixed creature, I call the classical.

It is like pouring a pot of treacle over the dinner table. Romanticism then, and this is the best definition I can give of it, is spilt religion.

What I mean by classical in verse, then, is this. That even in the most imaginative flights there is always a holding back, a reservation. The classical poet never forgets this finiteness, this limit of man. He remembers always that he is mixed up with earth. He may jump, but he always returns back; he never flies away into the circumambient gas.

You might say if you wished that the whole of the romantic attitude seems to crystallise in verse round metaphors of flight. Hugo is always flying, flying over abysses, flying up into the eternal gases. The word infinite in every other line. In the classical attitude you never seem to swing right along to the infinite nothing.

When I say that I dislike the romantics, I dissociate two things: the part of them in which they resemble all the great poets, and the part in which they differ and which gives them their character as romantics. It is this minor element which constitutes the particular note of a century, and which, while it excites contemporaries, annoys the next generation.

The thing has got so bad now that a poem which is all dry and hard, a properly classical poem, would not be considered poetry at all. How many people now can lay their hands on their hearts and say they like either Horace or Pope? They feel a kind of chill when they read them.

The dry hardness which you get in the classics is absolutely repugnant to them. Poetry that isn’t damp isn’t poetry at all. They cannot see that accurate description is a legitimate object of verse. Verse to them always means a bringing in of some of the emotions that are grouped round the word infinite.

 I can now get on to a discussion of two words often used in this connection, ‘fresh’ and ‘unexpected’. You praise a thing for being ‘fresh’. I understand what you mean, but the word besides conveying the truth conveys a secondary something which is certainly false. When you say a poem or drawing is fresh, and so good, the impression is somehow conveyed that the essential element of goodness is freshness, that it is good because it is fresh. Now this is certainly wrong, there is nothing particularly desirable about freshness per se. Works of art aren’t eggs.

It isn’t the scale or kind of emotion produced that decides, but this one fact: Is there any real zest in it? Did the poet have an actually realised visual object before him in which he delighted? It doesn’t matter if it were a lady’s shoe or the starry heavens.

Fancy is not mere decoration added on to plain speech. Plain speech is essentially inaccurate. It is only by new metaphors, that is, by fancy, that it can be made precise.

A literature of wonder must have an end as inevitably as a strange land loses its strangeness when one lives in it. Think of the lost ecstasy of the Elizabethans. ‘Oh my America, my new found land,’ (8) think of what it meant to them and of what it means to us. Wonder can only be the attitude of a man passing from one stage to another, it can never be a permanently fixed thing.

Joseph Conrad, “Preface to the Nigger of Narcissus”

1897

“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 single-minded 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” 1887.

Conrad clearly lays out problems of surface and depth here, akin to Forster’s interest in flat and round characters – these are some of the many origins of the denigration of attention to surface culture. Like Woolf, Conrad is interested in discovering what “is fundamental, what is enduring and essential… the artist, then, like the thinker or the scientist, seeks the truth and makes his appeal” 1887. But while the thinker “plunges into ideas, the scientist into facts,” and they speak to us in “common sense” and “always to our credulity… it is otherwise with the artist” 1887.

“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… 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 a steel armour” 1887.

“His appeal is less loud, more profound, less distinct, more stirring – and sooner forgotten. Yet its effect endures forever. 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… to our capacity for delight and wonder… 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” 1887.

Why is the effort made “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”? 1888. “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” 1888.

“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… appeals primarily to the senses… 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” 1888.

“And it is only through complete, unswerving devotion to the perfect blending of form and substance; it is only through an unremitting never-discouraged care for the shape and ring of sentences that an approach can be made to plasticity, to colour, and that 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” 1888.

It’s interesting that for Conrad, words are materials – surfaces worn thin that need to be… refaceted?

“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… it is everything… also, that glimpse of truth for which you have forgotten to ask” 1888.

“To snatch in a moment of courage, from the remorseless rush of time, a passing phase of life, is only the beginning of the task… to hold up unquestioningly, without choice and without fear, the rescued fragment before all eyes in the light of a sincere mode… to show its vibration, its colour, its form… reveal the substance of its truth… [to] attain to such clearness of sincerity that at last the presented vision… shall awaken in the hearts of beholders that feeling of unavoidable solidarity… which binds men to each other and all mankind to the visible world” 1889.

The writer who holds to these ideals “cannot be faithful to any one of the temporary formulas of his craft… the supreme cry of Art for Art itself, loses the exciting ring of its apparent immortality. It sounds far off. It has ceased to be a cry, and is heard only as a whisper, often incomprehensible” 1889. Art is more like witnessing the attempt of a laborer. “Art is long and life is short” (Hippocrates), and its goal is veiled in mists – it is not to unveil a secret or law, but something rarer.

“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… to make them pause for a look… reserved for only a very few to achieve… behold! – all the truth of life is there: a moment of vision, a sigh, a smile – and the return to an eternal rest” 1889.