A PERSONAL RECORD

BY JOSEPH CONRAD
A FAMILIAR PREFACE

As a general rule we do not want much encouragement to talk about
ourselves; yet this little book is the result of a friendly

suggestion, and even of a little friendly pressure. I defended
myself with some spirit; but, with characteristic" target="_blank" title="a.特有的 n.特性">characteristic tenacity, the

friendly voice insisted, "You know, you really must."
It was not an argument, but I submitted at once. If one must! .

. .
You perceive the force of a word. He who wants to persuade

should put his trust not in the right argument, but in the right
word. The power of sound has always been greater than the power

of sense. I don't say this by way of disparagement. It is
better for mankind to be impressionable than reflective. Nothing

humanely great--great, I mean, as affecting a whole mass of
lives--has come from reflection. On the other hand, you cannot

fail to see the power of mere words; such words as Glory, for
instance, or Pity. I won't mention any more. They are not far

to seek. Shouted with perseverance, with ardour, with
conviction, these two by their sound alone have set whole nations

in motion and upheaved the dry, hard ground on which rests our
whole social fabric. There's "virtue" for you if you like! . . .

Of course the accent must be attended to. The right accent.
That's very important. The capacious lung, the thundering or the

tender vocal chords. Don't talk to me of your Archimedes' lever.
He was an absent-minded person with a mathematical imagination.

Mathematics commands all my respect, but I have no use for
engines. Give me the right word and the right accent and I will

move the world.
What a dream for a writer! Because written words have their

accent, too. Yes! Let me only find the right word! Surely it
must be lying somewhere among the wreckage of all the plaints and

all the exultations poured out aloud since the first day when
hope, the undying, came down on earth. It may be there, close

by, disregarded, invisible, quite at hand. But it's no good. I
believe there are men who can lay hold of a needle in a pottle of

hay at the first try. For myself, I have never had such luck.
And then there is that accent. Another difficulty. For who is

going to tell whether the accent is right or wrong till the word
is shouted, and fails to be heard, perhaps, and goes down-wind,

leaving the world unmoved? Once upon a time there lived an
emperor who was a sage and something of a literary man. He

jotted down on ivory tablets thoughts, maxims, reflections which
chance has preserved for the edification of posterity. Among

other sayings--I am quoting from memory--I remember this solemn
admonition: "Let all thy words have the accent of heroic truth."

The accent of heroic truth! This is very fine, but I am thinking
that it is an easy matter for an austereemperor to jot down

grandiose advice. Most of the working truths on this earth are
humble, not heroic; and there have been times in the history of

mankind when the accents of heroic truth have moved it to nothing
but derision.

Nobody will expect to find between the covers of this little book
words of extraordinary potency or accents of irresistible

heroism. However humiliating for my self esteem, I must confess
that the counsels of Marcus Aurelius are not for me. They are

more fit for a moralist than for an artist. Truth of a modest
sort I can promise you, and also sincerity. That complete,

praise worthysincerity which, while it delivers one into the
hands of one's enemies, is as likely as not to embroil one with

one's friends.
"Embroil" is perhaps too strong an expression. I can't imagine

among either my enemies or my friends a being so hard up for
something to do as to quarrel with me. "To disappoint one's

friends" would be nearer the mark. Most, almost all, friend
ships of the writing period of my life have come to me through my

books; and I know that a novelist lives in his work. He stands
there, the only reality in an invented world, among imaginary

things, happenings, and people. Writing about them, he is only
writing about himself. But the disclosure is not complete. He

remains, to a certain extent, a figure behind the veil; a
suspected rather than a seen presence--a movement and a voice

behind the draperies of fiction. In these personal notes there is
no such veil. And I cannot help thinking of a passage in the

"Imitation of Christ" where the ascetic author, who knew life so
profoundly, says that "there are persons esteemed on their

reputation who by showing themselves destroy the opinion one had
of them." This is the danger incurred by an author of fiction

who sets out to talk about himself without disguise.
While these reminiscent pages were appearing serially I was

remonstrated with for bad economy; as if such writing were a form
of self-indulgence wasting the substance of future volumes. It

seems that I am not sufficientlyliterary. Indeed, a man who
never wrote a line for print till he was thirty-six cannot bring

himself to look upon his existence and his experience, upon the
sum of his thoughts, sensations, and emotions, upon his memories

and his regrets, and the whole possession of his past, as only so
much material for his hands. Once before, some three years ago,

when I published "The Mirror of the Sea," a volume of impressions
and memories, the same remarks were made to me. Practical

remarks. But, truth to say, I have never understood the kind of
thrift they recommend. I wanted to pay my tribute to the sea,

its ships and its men, to whom I remain indebted for so much
which has gone to make me what I am. That seemed to me the only

shape in which I could offer it to their shades. There could not
be a question in my mind of anything else. It is quite possible

that I am a bad economist; but it is certain that I am
incorrigible.

Having matured in the surroundings and under the special
conditions of sea life, I have a special piety toward that form

of my past; for its impressions were vivid, its appeal direct,
its demands such as could be responded to with the natural

elation of youth and strength equal to the call. There was
nothing in them to perplex a young conscience. Having broken

away from my origins under a storm of blame from every quarter
which had the merest shadow of right to voice an opinion, removed

by great distances from such natural affections as were still
left to me, and even estranged, in a measure, from them by the

totally unintelligible character of the life which had seduced me
so mysteriously from my allegiance, I may safely say that through

the blind force of circumstances the sea was to be all my world
and the merchant service my only home for a long succession of

years. No wonder, then, that in my two exclusively sea
books--"The Nigger of the Narcissus," and "The Mirror of the Sea"

(and in the few short sea stories like "Youth" and "Typhoon"--I
have tried with an almost filial regard to render the vibration

of life in the great world of waters, in the hearts of the simple
men who have for ages traversed its solitudes, and also that

something sentient which seems to dwell in ships--the creatures
of their hands and the objects of their care.

One's literary life must turn frequently for sustenance to
memories and seek discourse with the shades, unless one has made

up one's mind to write only in order to reprove mankind for what
it is, or praise it for what it is not, or--generally--to teach

it how to behave. Being neither quarrelsome, nor a flatterer,
nor a sage, I have done none of these things, and I am prepared

to put up serenely with the insignificance which attaches to
persons who are not meddlesome in some way or other. But

resignation is not indifference. I would not like to be left
standing as a mere spectator on the bank of the great stream

carrying onward so many lives. I would fain claim for myself the
faculty of so much insight as can be expressed in a voice of

sympathy and compassion.
It seems to me that in one, at least, authoritative quarter of

criticism I am suspected of a certain unemotional, grim
acceptance of facts--of what the French would call secheresse du

coeur. Fifteen years of unbroken silence before praise or blame
testify sufficiently to my respect for criticism, that fine