1. I am amazed by the structure of this novel: like a pulp novel, something happens in each of the 45 chapters. In the more introspective portions, that something may simply be a revelation or realization unique to the chapter. This effectively moves the story along and helps provide structure and legibility to Marlow's lengthy speech. The short chapters provide pauses throughout this section, allowing the reader a place to reflect and fit the chapter's revelation into the whole hazy portrait of Jim. The first portion of the book—chapters 1 through 4—the narrator narrates concerning Jim's first failure on the training ship, and the start of the Patna affair. This section is driven by facts and plot. The large middle portion—chapters 5 through 35—is Marlow's speech. This portion is introspective, ruminating on Jim and this era of western history. The final section—chapters 36 through 45—give the end of Jim's life as straight narrative through the letters of Marlow. I marvel at this three part structure. By loading most or all of the rumination into the middle section, the plot and facts of the last third of the book just fly by—the contrast between the slow second part and the action third part is why the third feels like it flies—but without losing the importance of the ruminations. For example, when Brown and Jim are talking across the creek, in chapter 41, Brown unknowingly touches on Jim's Patna case. Marlow's letter does not speculate on the effect this had on Jim, but because of the earlier ruminations in the middle part, it is clear here that Jim consciously tries to take the high road in an effort to further separate himself from his past and show he lives up to the world outside Patusan, fits in with the club, has become a better person. This reveals the second part casting its shadow on the pure action the third. Conrad uses this tripartite structure to inform the writing, and I think the rewards are great for the reader: the third part is wonderfully exciting. Interestingly, this structure is echoed in Starship Troopers: which opens with a bug raid, has a lengthy, introspective middle portion, then closes with another bug raid.
2. Jim is a pulp adventure hero in his own mind, but he fails three times and, well, three strikes and you're out. He has ego, dreams, and a keen sense of trying to find the decisive moment where greatness can be made. But, like Kurtz in Heart of Darkness, he is a product of his culture, a byproduct perhaps, a side effect. He is the appearance of confidence, duty, and that all-important stiff upper lip, but he just isn't justified in his self assessment. He acts well in pre-scripted scenes like with Ali. But once the situation is more complex than his imagination has foreseen, he freezes. He's that friend who seems actually capable, but just cannot keep a job. He's a tragedy of social conditioning bound by his ideas, ideals, and their disconnect with reality. Through Marlow's puzzled ruminations, Jim's words and manner, and the actions of Jim, the novel communicates Jim's simple complexity while condemning the culture whose mold he doesn't actually fit, but is desperately trying to. He's the quintessential wanna be Byronic hero.
3. This cultural condemnation is the theme: the culture that created Jim is partially to blame for his failures. The over romanticization of the sea life, the ingrained moral superiority of the white skin color, the economic system that takes advantage of sailors, and the religion of greed receive the brunt of Conrad's attack. Where Heart of Darkness focuses on how whites were screwing up others' cultures and lives, this is about how they were screwing themselves up at the same time. The culture is blissfully unaware and blind to the fact that as much as they think the Malays and Bugis are savage, the Westerners are more destructive by far. In this, the last nine chapters are really an object lesson, plot exemplifying the theme: Jim starts out self assured, doing good for both himself and the natives; then this destructive element raises its ugly head in the form of Brown; because of the blinders of his social conditioning, Jim doesn't allow himself realize exactly what he's dealing with, so he treats with it as if it were a gentleman; and he gets rid of it, sure, but he loses his life and the life of his best friend in the process. Down to the changing view of Jim held by the Bugis population—initially that he is almost a divine, then that he is to blame for a great misfortune—Jim's life follows the pattern of colonization from this period perfectly. This is brilliant plot supporting the theme perfectly and condemning the culture that could create colonization.
4. Conrad foreshadows very well: not only hinting offhandedly at piracy before Brown appears, but also those last few paragraphs are phrases taken from earlier chapters in the book. The foreshadowing is sparse enough that it doesn't tell what's coming, rather makes what comes unsurprising and seemed to logically fit within the story and world. It's tip-of-the-tongue familiar when it arrives.
And his opportunity sat veiled by his side like an Eastern bride waiting to be uncovered by the hand of the master. He too was the heir of a shadowy and mighty tradition! —Chapter 24
He had to give in to my arguments, because all his conquests, the trust, the fame, the friendships, the love—all these things that made him master had made him a captive, too. —Chapter24
That's how it was—and the opportunity ran by his side, leaped over the gap, floundered in the mud . . . still veiled. —Chapter 25
He was white from head to foot, and remained persistently visible with the stronghold of the night at his back, the sea at his feet, the opportunity by his side—still veiled. What do you say? Was it still veiled? I don't know. For me that white figure in the stillness of coast and sea seemed to stand at the heart of a vast enigma. —Chapter 35
There is much truth—after all—in the common expression "under a cloud." It is impossible to see him clearly—especially as it is through the eyes of others that we take our last look at him. —Chapter 36
I seem to see him, returned at last, no longer a mere white speck at the heart of an immense mystery, but of full stature, standing disregarded amongst their untroubled shapes, with a stern and romantic aspect, but always mute, dark—under a cloud. You must admit that it is romantic beyond the wildest dreams of his boyhood. —Chapter 36
Many days elapsed before the people had ceased to look out, quaking, for the return of the white men with long beards and in rags, whose exact relation to their own white man they could never understand. Even for those simple minds poor Jim remains under a cloud. —Chapter 45
5. Aside from the above points praising Conrad's storytelling, his writing is also excellent. He makes each character distinct though unique voices and mannerisms which help explain them as people. He has beautiful descriptions that still feel fresh today. His sentence structures vary to fit the tale: when Marlow is confused about something Jim said or did, the sentences are convoluted, repetitive, pausing. His vocabulary is spectacular. The last few paragraphs are simply the best prose I've ever read in English. Period. They encapsulate the entire novel concisely and beautifully, while also closing it off effectively:
'The crowd, which had fallen apart behind Jim as soon as Doramin had raised his hand, rushed tumultuously forward after the shot. They say that the white man sent right and left at all those faces a proud and unflinching glance. Then with his hand over his lips he fell forward, dead.
'And that's the end. He passes away under a cloud, inscrutable at heart, forgotten, unforgiven, and excessively romantic. Not in the wildest days of his boyish visions could he have seen the alluring shape of such an extraordinary success! For it may very well be that in the short moment of his last proud and unflinching glance, he had beheld the face of that opportunity which, like an Eastern bride, had come veiled to his side.
'But we can see him, an obscure conqueror of fame, tearing himself out of the arms of a jealous love at the sign, at the call of his exalted egoism. He goes away from a living woman to celebrate his pitiless wedding with a shadowy ideal of conduct. Is he satisfied—quite, now, I wonder? We ought to know. He is one of us—and have I not stood up once, like an evoked ghost, to answer for his eternal constancy? Was I so very wrong after all? Now he is no more, there are days when the reality of his existence comes to me with an immense, with an overwhelming force; and yet upon my honour there are moments, too when he passes from my eyes like a disembodied spirit astray amongst the passions of this earth, ready to surrender himself faithfully to the claim of his own world of shades.
'Who knows? He is gone, inscrutable at heart, and the poor girl is leading a sort of soundless, inert life in Stein's house. Stein has aged greatly of late. He feels it himself, and says often that he is "preparing to leave all this; preparing to leave . . ." while he waves his hand sadly at his butterflies.' —Chapter 45, The End
6. Jim is also relatable, one of us: for who hasn't made a mistake at work or felt shame? So, to Marlow, who keeps saying that Jim is "one of us"—and I think he means that in a more changing and specific sense than an Englishman or seamen, more like Marlow and his presumably accomplished and able friends—he's both relatable and mysterious. This is the contradiction in Jim that forces Marlow's curiosity to this point of involvement, to where the surface description of the book could be, "Conrad's interpretation of Marlow's interpretation of the life of Lord Jim and the lessons that Marlow draws from it."
7. As a character, Marlow comes off as upstanding, capable, bright, curious, and persistent. Just from number of spoken lines alone, he is the most apparent character in the novel. I think the argument could be made that he is the most important character in the novel as well: he feels a cultural responsibility for Jim, and through his almost guilty words Conrad's theme most strongly comes through to condemn the social conditioning that led to Jim. Marlow stands in for the culture.
8. Most of the other white characters in the novel also reinforce Conrad's theme—but these through their actions. Stein is disillusioned with the culture, and only his rejection of that lifestyle gains him any measure of peace and fame—though maybe only fame in the field of geopolitics, butterflies, and exotic plants. Brown is the colonizer that colonizes other colonizers' colonies: he's sick and he's as much a product of this as Jim is. The three others who desert the Patna are shown to be uselessly selfish cowards when they run from the inquiry. Chester and Captain Robinson are an unrealistic schemer and a dupe respectively. Captain O'Brien with his drunk dogmatism and inflexibility cannot deal with reality at all. Captain Brierley suicides after the prosecution of Jim because he can't fit into the mold that he embodies and thinks he minted. Cornelius is a selfish, single minded, vindictive soul who blames all on bad luck. Even these little stories throughout the novel directly support Conrad's theme.
Now a couple of passages from the book, expanding the quotes above to give specific examples to the way Conrad foreshadows, in this case specifically dealing with the language of the last few paragraphs:
And his opportunity sat veiled by his side like an Eastern bride waiting to be uncovered by the hand of the master. He too was the heir of a shadowy and mighty tradition! —Chapter 24
He had to give in to my arguments, because all his conquests, the trust, the fame, the friendships, the love—all these things that made him master had made him a captive, too. —Chapter 24
This is where I leaped over on my third day in Patusan. They haven't put new stakes there yet. Good leap, eh?" A moment later we passed the mouth of a muddy creek. "This is my second leap. I had a bit of a run and took this one flying, but fell short. Thought I would leave my skin there. Lost my shoes struggling. And all the time I was thinking to myself how beastly it would be to get a jab with a bally long spear while sticking in the mud like this. I remember how sick I felt wriggling in that slime. I mean really sick—as if I had bitten something rotten." That's how it was—and the opportunity ran by his side, leaped over the gap, floundered in the mud . . . still veiled. —Chapter 25
The two half-naked fishermen had arisen as soon as I had gone; they were no doubt pouring the plaint of their trifling, miserable, oppressed lives into the ears of the white lord, and no doubt he was listening to it, making it his own, for was it not a part of his luck—the luck "from the word Go"—the luck to which he had assured me he was so completely equal? They, too, I should think, were in luck, and I was sure their pertinacity would be equal to it. Their dark-skinned bodies vanished on the dark background long before I had lost sight of their protector. He was white from head to foot, and remained persistently visible with the stronghold of the night at his back, the sea at his feet, the opportunity by his side—still veiled. What do you say? Was it still veiled? I don't know. For me that white figure in the stillness of coast and sea seemed to stand at the heart of a vast enigma. The twilight was ebbing fast from the sky above his head, the strip of sand had sunk already under his feet, he himself appeared no bigger than a child—then only a speck, a tiny white speck, that seemed to catch all the light left in a darkened world. . . . And, suddenly, I lost him. . . —Chapter 35
I affirm nothing. Perhaps you may pronounce—after you've read. There is much truth—after all—in the common expression "under a cloud." It is impossible to see him clearly—especially as it is through the eyes of others that we take our last look at him. I have no hesitation in imparting to you all I know of the last episode that, as he used to say, had "come to him." One wonders whether this was perhaps that supreme opportunity, that last and satisfying test for which I had always suspected him to be waiting, before he could frame a message to the impeccable world. You remember that when I was leaving him for the last time he had asked whether I would be going home soon, and suddenly cried after me, "Tell them . . ." I had waited—curious I'll own, and hopeful too—only to hear him shout, "No—nothing." That was all then—and there will be nothing more; there will be no message, unless such as each of us can interpret for himself from the language of facts, that are so often more enigmatic than the craftiest arrangement of words. —Chapter 36
No, there is nothing much in that yellow frayed letter fluttering out of his cherishing grasp after so many years. It was never answered, but who can say what converse he may have held with all these placid, colourless forms of men and women peopling that quiet corner of the world as free of danger or strife as a tomb, and breathing equably the air of undisturbed rectitude. It seems amazing that he should belong to it, he to whom so many things "had come." Nothing ever came to them; they would never be taken unawares, and never be called upon to grapple with fate. Here they all are, evoked by the mild gossip of the father, all these brothers and sisters, bone of his bone and flesh of his flesh, gazing with clear unconscious eyes, while I seem to see him, returned at last, no longer a mere white speck at the heart of an immense mystery, but of full stature, standing disregarded amongst their untroubled shapes, with a stern and romantic aspect, but always mute, dark—under a cloud. The story of the last events you will find in the few pages enclosed here. You must admit that it is romantic beyond the wildest dreams of his boyhood, and yet there is to my mind a sort of profound and terrifying logic in it, as if it were our imagination alone that could set loose upon us the might of an overwhelming destiny. The imprudence of our thoughts recoils upon our heads; who toys with the sword shall perish by the sword. This astounding adventure, of which the most astounding part is that it is true, comes on as an unavoidable consequence. Something of the sort had to happen. You repeat this to yourself while you marvel that such a thing could happen in the year of grace before last. But it has happened—and there is no disputing its logic. —Chapter 36
'I do not know what this gathering really meant. Were these preparations for war, or for vengeance, or to repulse a threatened invasion? Many days elapsed before the people had ceased to look out, quaking, for the return of the white men with long beards and in rags, whose exact relation to their own white man they could never understand. Even for those simple minds poor Jim remains under a cloud. —Chapter 45
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