Have you ever thought about what fiction is? Probably, such a question may seem surprising: and so everything is clear. Every person throughout his life has to repeatedly create the works he needs for specific purposes - statements, autobiographies, dictations - using not gypsum or clay, not musical notes, not paints, but just a word. At the same time, almost every person will be very surprised if he is told that he thereby created a work of fiction, which is very different from visual art, music and sculpture making. However, everyone understands that a student's essay or dictation is fundamentally different from novels, short stories, news that are created by professional writers. In the works of professionals there is the most important difference - excogitation. But, oddly enough, in a school literature course, you donât realize the full power of fiction. So using our website in your free time discover fiction for yourself. Lord Jim by Joseph Conrad (motivational novels for students TXT) đ
- Author: Joseph Conrad
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âIt is precisely the casualness of it that strikes me most. Neither Stein nor I had a clear conception of what might be on the other side when we, metaphorically speaking, took him up and hove him over the wall with scant ceremony. At the moment I merely wished to achieve his disappearance; Stein characteristically enough had a sentimental motive. He had a notion of paying off (in kind, I suppose) the old debt he had never forgotten. Indeed he had been all his life especially friendly to anybody from the British Isles. His late benefactor, it is true, was a Scotâeven to the length of being called Alexander McNeilâand Jim came from a long way south of the Tweed; but at the distance of six or seven thousand miles Great Britain, though never diminished, looks foreshortened enough even to its own children to rob such details of their importance. Stein was excusable, and his hinted intentions were so generous that I begged him most earnestly to keep them secret for a time. I felt that no consideration of personal advantage should be allowed to influence Jim; that not even the risk of such influence should be run. We had to deal with another sort of reality. He wanted a refuge, and a refuge at the cost of danger should be offered himânothing more.
âUpon every other point I was perfectly frank with him, and I even (as I believed at the time) exaggerated the danger of the undertaking. As a matter of fact I did not do it justice; his first day in Patusan was nearly his lastâwould have been his last if he had not been so reckless or so hard on himself and had condescended to load that revolver. I remember, as I unfolded our precious scheme for his retreat, how his stubborn but weary resignation was gradually replaced by surprise, interest, wonder, and by boyish eagerness. This was a chance he had been dreaming of. He couldnât think how he merited that I ⊠He would be shot if he could see to what he owed âŠAnd it was Stein, Stein the merchant, who âŠbut of course it was me he had to ⊠I cut him short. He was not articulate, and his gratitude caused me inexplicable pain. I told him that if he owed this chance to any one especially, it was to an old Scot of whom he had never heard, who had died many years ago, of whom little was remembered besides a roaring voice and a rough sort of honesty. There was really no one to receive his thanks.
Stein was passing on to a young man the help he had received in his own young days, and I had done no more than to mention his name. Upon this he coloured, and, twisting a bit of paper in his fingers, he remarked bashfully that I had always trusted him.
âI admitted that such was the case, and added after a pause that I wished he had been able to follow my example. âYou think I donât?â he asked uneasily, and remarked in a mutter that one had to get some sort of show first; then brightening up, and in a loud voice he protested he would give me no occasion to regret my confidence, whichâwhich âŠ
â âDo not misapprehend,â I interrupted. âIt is not in your power to make me regret anything.â There would be no regrets; but if there were, it would be altogether my own affair: on the other hand, I wished him to understand clearly that this arrangement, thisâ
thisâexperiment, was his own doing; he was responsible for it and no one else. âWhy? Why,â he stammered, âthis is the very thing that I âŠâ I begged him not to be dense, and he looked more puzzled than ever. He was in a fair way to make life intolerable to himself ⊠âDo you think so?â he asked, disturbed; but in a moment added confidently, âI was going on though. Was I not?â
It was impossible to be angry with him: I could not help a smile, and told him that in the old days people who went on like this were on the way of becoming hermits in a wilderness. âHermits be hanged!â he commented with engaging impulsiveness. Of course he didnât mind a wilderness⊠. âI was glad of it,â I said. That was where he would be going to. He would find it lively enough, I ventured to promise. âYes, yes,â he said, keenly. He had shown a desire, I continued inflexibly, to go out and shut the door after him⊠. âDid I?â he interrupted in a strange access of gloom that seemed to envelop him from head to foot like the shadow of a passing cloud. He was wonderfully expressive after all. Wonderfully!
âDid I?â he repeated bitterly. âYou canât say I made much noise about it.
And I can keep it up, tooâonly, confound it! you show me a door.â âŠ
âVery well. Pass on,â I struck in. I could make him a solemn promise that it would be shut behind him with a vengeance. His fate, whatever it was, would be ignored, because the country, for all its rotten state, was not judged ripe for interference. Once he got in, it would be for the outside world as though he had never existed. He would have nothing but the soles of his two feet to stand upon, and he would have first to find his ground at that. âNever existedâthatâs it, by Jove,â he murmured to himself. His eyes, fastened upon my lips, sparkled. If he had thoroughly understood the conditions, I concluded, he had better jump into the first gharry he could see and drive on to Steinâs house for his final instructions. He flung out of the room before I had fairly finished speaking.â
âHe did not return till next morning. He had been kept to dinner and for the night. There never had been such a wonderful man as Mr. Stein. He had in his pocket a letter for Cornelius (âthe Johnnie whoâs going to get the sack,â he explained, with a momentary drop in his elation), and he exhibited with glee a silver ring, such as natives use, worn down very thin and showing faint traces of chasing.
âThis was his introduction to an old chap called Doraminâone of the principal men out thereâa big potâwho had been Mr. Steinâs friend in that country where he had all these adventures. Mr. Stein called him âwar-comrade.â War-comrade was good. Wasnât it? And didnât Mr.
Stein speak English wonderfully well? Said he had learned it in Celebesâof all places! That was awfully funny. Was it not? He did speak with an accentâa twangâdid I notice? That chap Doramin had given him the ring. They had exchanged presents when they parted for the last time. Sort of promising eternal friendship. He called it fineâdid I not? They had to make a dash for dear life out of the country when that MohammedâMohammedâWhatâs-his-name had been killed. I knew the story, of course. Seemed a beastly shame, didnât it? âŠ
âHe ran on like this, forgetting his plate, with a knife and fork in hand (he had found me at tiffin), slightly flushed, and with his eyes darkened many shades, which was with him a sign of excitement.
The ring was a sort of credentialâ(âItâs like something you read of in books,â he threw in appreciatively)âand Doramin would do his best for him. Mr. Stein had been the means of saving that chapâs life on some occasion; purely by accident, Mr. Stein had said, but heâJimâhad his own opinion about that. Mr. Stein was just the man to look out for such accidents. No matter. Accident or purpose, this would serve his turn immensely. Hoped to goodness the jolly old beggar had not gone off the hooks meantime. Mr. Stein could not tell. There had been no news for more than a year; they were kicking up no end of an all-fired row amongst themselves, and the river was closed. Jolly awkward, this; but, no fear; he would manage to find a crack to get in.
âHe impressed, almost frightened, me with his elated rattle. He was voluble like a youngster on the eve of a long holiday with a prospect of delightful scrapes, and such an attitude of mind in a grown man and in this connection had in it something phenomenal, a little mad, dangerous, unsafe. I was on the point of entreating him to take things seriously when he dropped his knife and fork (he had begun eating, or rather swallowing food, as it were, unconsciously), and began a search all round his plate. The ring! The ring! Where the devil ⊠Ah! Here it was ⊠He closed his big hand on it, and tried all his pockets one after another. Jove!
wouldnât do to lose the thing. He meditated gravely over his fist.
Had it? Would hang the bally affair round his neck! And he proceeded to do this immediately, producing a string (which looked like a bit of a cotton shoe-lace) for the purpose. There! That would do the trick!
It would be the deuce if ⊠He seemed to catch sight of my face for the first time, and it steadied him a little. I probably didnât realise, he said with a naive gravity, how much importance he attached to that token. It meant a friend; and it is a good thing to have a friend. He knew something about that. He nodded at me expressively, but before my disclaiming gesture he leaned his head on his hand and for a while sat silent, playing thoughtfully with the bread-crumbs on the cloth ⊠âSlam the doorâthat was jolly well put,â he cried, and jumping up, began to pace the room, reminding me by the set of the shoulders, the turn of his head, the headlong and uneven stride, of that night when he had paced thus, confessing, explainingâwhat you willâbut, in the last instance, livingâliving before me, under his own little cloud, with all his unconscious subtlety which could draw consolation from the very source of sorrow. It was the same mood, the same and different, like a fickle companion that to-day guiding you on the true path, with the same eyes, the same step, the same impulse, to-morrow will lead you hopelessly astray. His tread was assured, his straying, darkened eyes seemed to search the room for something.
One of his footfalls somehow sounded louder than the otherâthe fault of his boots probablyâand gave a curious impression of an invisible halt in his gait. One of his hands was rammed deep into his trousersâ
pocket, the other waved suddenly above his head. âSlam the door!â
he shouted. âIâve been waiting for that. Iâll show yet ⊠Iâll âŠ
Iâm ready for any confounded thing ⊠Iâve been dreaming of it ⊠Jove! Get out of this. Jove! This is luck at last ⊠You wait.
Iâll âŠâ
âHe tossed his head fearlessly, and I confess that for the first and last time in our acquaintance I perceived myself unexpectedly to be thoroughly sick of him. Why these vapourings? He was stumping about the room flourishing his arm absurdly, and now and then feeling on his breast for the ring under his clothes. Where was the sense of such exaltation in a man appointed to be a trading-clerk, and in a place where there was no tradeâat that? Why hurl defiance at the universe? This was not a proper frame of mind to approach any undertaking; an improper frame of mind not only for him, I said, but for any man. He stood still over me. Did I think so?
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