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A Personal Record-Part1_JOSEPH CONRAD (1857-1924)_English Literature(文学名著)-第2页

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flower of personal expression in the garden of letters. But this

is more of a personal matter, reaching the man behind the work,



and therefore it may be alluded to in a volume which is a

personal note in the margin of the public page. Not that I feel



hurt in the least. The charge--if it amounted to a charge at

all--was made in the most considerate terms; in a tone of regret.



My answer is that if it be true that every novel contains an

element of autobiography--and this can hardly be denied, since



the creator can only express himself in his creation--then there

are some of us to whom an open display of sentiment is repugnant.



I would not unduly praise the virtue of restraint. It is often

merely temperamental. But it is not always a sign of coldness.



It may be pride. There can be nothing more humiliating than to

see the shaft of one's emotion miss the mark of either laughter



or tears. Nothing more humiliating! And this for the reason

that should the mark be missed, should the open display of



emotion fail to move, then it must perish unavoidably in disgust

or contempt. No artist can be reproached for shrinking from a



risk which only fools run to meet and only genius dare confront

with impunity. In a task which mainly consists in laying one's



soul more or less bare to the world, a regard for decency, even

at the cost of success, is but the regard for one's own dignity



which is inseparably united with the dignity of one's work.

And then--it is very difficult to be whollyjoyous or wholly sad



on this earth. The comic, when it is human, soon takes upon

itself a face of pain; and some of our griefs (some only, not



all, for it is the capacity for suffering which makes man August

in the eyes of men) have their source in weaknesses which must be



recognized with smiling com passion as the common inheritance of

us all. Joy and sorrow in this world pass into each other,



mingling their forms and their murmurs in the twilight of life as

mysterious as an over shadowed ocean, while the dazzling



brightness of supreme hopes lies far off, fascinating and still,

on the distant edge of the horizon.



Yes! I, too, would like to hold the magic wand giving that

command over laughter and tears which is declared to be the



highest achievement of imaginativeliterature. Only, to be a

great magician one must surrender oneself to occult and



irresponsible powers, either outside or within one's breast. We

have all heard of simple men selling their souls for love or



power to some grotesque devil. The most ordinary intelligence

can perceive without much reflection that anything of the sort is



bound to be a fool's bargain. I don't lay claim to particular

wisdom because of my dislike and distrust of such transactions.



It may be my sea training acting upon a natural disposition to

keep good hold on the one thing really mine, but the fact is that



I have a positivehorror of losing even for one moving moment

that full possession of my self which is the first condition of



good service. And I have carried my notion of good service from

my earlier into my later existence. I, who have never sought in



the written word anything else but a form of the Beautiful--I

have carried over that article of creed from the decks of ships



to the more circumscribed space of my desk, and by that act, I

suppose, I have become permanentlyimperfect in the eyes of the



ineffable company of pure esthetes.

As in political so in literary action a man wins friends for



himself mostly by the passion of his prejudices and by the

consistent narrowness of his outlook. But I have never been able



to love what was not lovable or hate what was not hateful out of

deference for some general principle. Whether there be any



courage in making this admission I know not. After the middle

turn of life's way we consider dangers and joys with a tranquil






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