Heart of Darkness

The heart of darkness that is profusely referred to in this novella could come to mean so many things. And what it really means, what is really meant, why it means so, who means and for whom, to my mind, reflects the appreciations and apparent criticisms of the book.
Man's own capacity; a capacity to corrupt and get corrupted, man's ultimate inability to comprehend and rend the thick shards of ambiguity life catches us in, sort of feeds that impenetrable heart of darkness. Do we not all own it, have it, exhibit it? And then, if that is so, Heart of Darkness is a parable of human nature.
Despite hearing about the reservations on the racist tones and the not so anti-imperialist stance, I feel that there is more to this work than just that. Nowhere am I determinedly able to maintain that the text gives way to an authorial voice depicting a for or against sign, let alone some agenda to obey. If anything, it is a rich and complex novella with a promise to yield thoughtful discussion.
Degradation of human beings, material and spiritual, is what is at heart of the tale. And the language that captures the prose captivates aspect and attention with poetical sensitivity.
Still, I can hear reserved echoes of criticisms leveled against the 'dark' heart (particularly in its treatment of the natives of Congo, attributed as well to the racist tradition existent in Western literature). But if the dark treatment of Africa is to be considered as representative, what about the 'light' that is coming from the other side. Is it, in Conrad's view, all the more redeeming or 'civilised'? And can we say then which does the voice means when it sighs profoundly the word, 'Horror'? I don't know yet. In that I find the book more open-ended than we presume probably.
Somehow, style is central to narration and is thus worthy of re-readings. The narrative voice is aptly unreliable. Never do we really get to know what Marlow thinks in his own heart; he is a voice telling but somehow devoid of an intimacy towards readers. Perhaps, through what he sees on the outside, he sees the all too dark heart of his own and is unable to reveal it to us as Kurtz does. Marlow envies Kurtz for "He had something to say. He said it."

I am just not prepared enough to understand it yet maybe I'll reread it in future.

This book felt like a morbid tale with all of the gloomy atmosphere, and the hostility among all the characters and above all it felt like an allegory of the narrator Charles Marlow’s individual psychological descent. rather than being fiercely anti-colonial, this book has painted a picture of deeply flawed individuals some of them are full of greed, some want power, and some want adventure in the sense of being able to partake in a journey to the darkest part of the world but all of they had something in common which is their sense and humanity has become dark and dim. the main theme is not how congo has tuned itself from the upstream of progress but how the "civilised" people have traded their so-called civility to feel superiority and economically privileged with any means be it violence or manipulation. Now we get what exactly is this heart of darkness. Our protagonist here is called Marlow, who has proclaimed himself curious by nature so he came to explore the mysterious Africa, where colonizers plundered and made the continent a raw material provider. he is certainly not likeable in fact his thoughtlessness and lack of morality don't make him a cartoonish villain but it does portray that he is not bothered with anything at all. he doesn't care. his ambivalency was certainly a quality which at first made me very confused but ultimately we can see in this allegory there are no heroes, we do have many antagonists and some characters who were merely treated like a symbol (the cannibals, Curtz's mistress., his fiancee)

I quite liked it, although I like stylistic language, Conrad's prose was too much for me sometimes. 3.5 stars out of 5.

So freakin boring.
Makes sense why the movie was boring.
bleh

2 is being generous.

"Droll thing life is—that mysterious arrangement of merciless logic for a futile purpose. The most you can hope from it is some knowledge of yourself—that comes too late—a crop of unextinguishable regrets. I have wrestled with death. It is the most unexciting contest you can imagine. It takes place in an impalpable greyness, with nothing underfoot, with nothing around, without spectators, without clamour, without glory, without the great desire of victory, without the great fear of defeat, in a sickly atmosphere of tepid scepticism, without much belief in your own right, and still less in that of your adversary. If such is the form of ultimate wisdom, then life is a greater riddle than some of us think it to be. I was within a hair's breadth of the last opportunity for pronouncement, and I found with humiliation that probably I would have nothing to say. This is the reason why I affirm that Kurtz was a remarkable man. He had something to say. He said it. Since I had peeped over the edge myself, I understand better the meaning of his stare, that could not see the flame of the candle, but was wide enough to embrace the whole universe, piercing enough to penetrate all the hearts that beat in the darkness. "