Years ago, almost centuries ago, I read in an BBC English Manual that Joseph Conrad had learned to speak English in a ship, out off the sea, around seamen; that his name was not such and that he was indeed Polish. I was only a child struggling with the impossible task of learning a hostile language (still am, still is) and got aghast and amazed _such was the impression on me.
I have Lord Jim in my hands now and I can say that his learned prose is noticeable_ I can sense the invisible, subtle difference of the non-native writer from the native one. Conrad's stream of ink is, nevertheless, personal and independent, sweet and deep at the same time. It soaks your nerves unpredictably, in an imperceptible way. His use of words like "men" and "heart" feels like welcome and profound sips of warm broth _ the feeling is vast and wild, like a window opened to eternity.
"(...) And a warmth of welcome that melts the salt of three months' passage out of a seaman's heart".
"He (...) quelled mutinies on the high seas, and in a small boat upon the ocean kept up the hearts of despairing men".
Oh!
The epilogue written on the frontispiece by Novalis is, as well, revealing:
"It is certain any conviction
gains infinitely the moment another soul
will believe in it".
I feel the opposite is also true and as much revealing...
How lonely the idea, how lonely the man who stands alone!
(PLEASE, LEAVE YOUR COMMENT).
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