Heart of Darkness and Selected Short Fiction (Barnes & Noble Classics)
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This collection also includes three of Conrad’s finest short stories: “Youth,” the author’s largely autobiographical tale of a young man’s ill-fated sea voyage, in which Marlow makes his first appearance, “The Secret Sharer,” and “Amy Forster.”
A. Michael Matin is a professor in the English Department of Warren Wilson College in Asheville, North Carolina. He has published articles on various twentieth-century British and postcolonial writers.
and invited him to have a look round, as if I were very proud of my accommodation. He had to rise and be shown round, but he went through the business without any raptures whatever. “And now we’ll have a look at my stateroom,” I declared, in a voice as loud as I dared to make it, crossing the cabin to the starboard side with purposely heavy steps. He followed me in and gazed around. My intelligent double had vanished. I played my part. “Very convenient—isn’t it?” “Very nice. Very comf ...” He
lay no claim to unity of artistic purpose. The only bond between them is that of the time in which they were written. They belong to the period immediately following the publication of the “Nigger of the Narcissus,” and preceding the first conception of “Nostromo,” two books which, it seems to me, stand apart and by themselves in the body of my work. It is also the period during which I contributed to Maga;a a period dominated by “Lord Jim” and associated in my grateful memory with the late Mr.
the doctor, so I proposed a drink, and thereupon he developed a vein of joviality. As we sat over our vermuths he glorified the Company’s business, and by-and-by I expressed casually my surprise at him not going out there. He became very cool and collected all at once. ‘I am not such a fool as I look, quoth Plato to his disciples,’bo he said sententiously, emptied his glass with great resolution, and we rose. “The old doctor felt my pulse, evidently thinking of something else the while. ‘Good,
about the farm, always the same—day after day, month after month, year after year. She never showed a desire for conversation, and, as it seemed to me, she did not know how to smile. Sometimes of a fine Sunday afternoon she would put on her best dress, a pair of stout boots, a large gray hat trimmed with a black feather (I’ve seen her in that finery), seize an absurdly slender parasol, climb over two stiles,ea tramp over three fields and along two hundred yards of road—never further. There stood
very little more. Fast alongside a wharf, littered like any ship in port with a tangle of unrelated things, invaded by unrelated shore people, I had hardly seen her yet properly. Now, as she lay cleared for sea, the stretch of her main-deck seemed to me very fine under the stars. Very fine, very roomy for her size, and very inviting. I descended the poop and paced the waist, my mind picturing to myself the coming passage through the Malay Archipelago, down the Indian Ocean, and up the Atlantic.