One Hundred Years Without Joseph Conrad, the Narrator of Civilization's Horrors

A great innovator of the novel, Joseph Conrad's stature grows with the passage of time. A century after his death, Józef Teodor Konrad Korzeniowski, his real name, deserves the title of global novelist thanks to his numerous travels, from Malaysia to the Congo, passing through the Caribbean. His maritime books are so good and memorable that everyone imagines Conrad aboard a sailboat, his skin weathered by the sun and cold, with a film of salt on his arms.

His masterpiece for which he will always be remembered is the novel 'Heart of Darkness', inspired by his journey through the Congo as a steamboat captain. "What he saw in the Congo was a European regime of unspeakable greed, violence, and hypocrisy, and he left Africa in a state of absolute psychological and moral disheartenment," writes Maya Jasanoff, professor of History at Harvard University and author of 'The Dawn Watch' (Debate), a recently published book. There is no doubt, the historian believes, that migrations, terrorism, tensions between capitalism and nationalism, and the communication revolution at the beginning of the 20th century propelled the writer's destiny.

Conrad witnessed how in a few years sailing ships were displaced by the speed and efficiency of new vessels. Fossil fuels replaced wind power and trade routes expanded to cover the entire planet.

Born in Berdychiv, now Ukraine, on December 3, 1857, his family belonged to the small Polish rural aristocracy. His father, serving the nationalist movement, was sentenced to forced labor in Siberia, which plunged the child into misery. His mother died of tuberculosis, leaving the boy in the care of an uncle who paid for his education.

At seventeen he deserted from school and went to Marseille to cement his legend as a sea wolf. From then on he made his living in the merchant navy plying European colonial trade and military routes. He witnessed firsthand the madness, abuses, and horror of colonial exploitation perpetrated in the name of progress and Europe's civilizing mission.

In 1886 he was granted English citizenship. Nine years later his first book appeared, 'Almayer's Folly'. He wrote then in a language that was not his own. Despite his initial stammering in English and his marked foreign accent, Conrad became a magnificent prose writer with an introspective root and poetic breath.

As a son of his time, he sang the glories of the British Empire, which he considered a bulwark of order, although this did not prevent him from criticizing atrocities committed in the name of civilization. Despite this sensitivity, he has not escaped attempts at cancellation. In the 1970s, Nigerian novelist Chinua Achebe asserted in a famous essay that 'Heart of Darkness' was "an offensive and totally deplorable book." But it was precisely this work that served Francis Ford Coppola to film that cinematic monument called 'Apocalypse Now'. Instead of sailing up and down between Kinshasa and Kisangani, Coppola had American soldiers navigate the Mekong at the end of the Vietnam War.

Javier Marías said of him that two main traits characterized him: deference and irritability, which certainly constitutes a contradiction. "His natural state was one of restlessness bordering on anxiety, and his concern for others was so great that even a minor setback suffered by one of his friends would often bring on an attack of gout, an illness he had contracted as a young man in the Malay Archipelago and which tormented him for the rest of his life," wrote Marías in 'Written Lives'. The relevance of Conrad's writing contrasts with his ethical ideals anchored in old issues such as honor, bravery, and loyalty.

The author of 'Nostromo', 'The Secret Agent', and 'Lord Jim' was not as much a globetrotter as his biography suggested. The last 30 years of his life were spent on land leading a surprisingly sedentary life. It is no exaggeration to say that he lived and died comfortably. On August 3rd, 1924, he suddenly fell from his chair to the floor. He passed away at age 66 in his home in Kent. He had had a bad day before but nothing foretold his demise. Perhaps in that last breath he remembered the sea, that space of infinite freedom.