

                                 Joseph Conrad

                                Almayer's Folly

                          A Story of an Eastern River

                                 Author's Note

I am informed that in criticizing that literature which preys on strange people
and prowls in far-off countries, under the shade of palms, in the unsheltered
glare of sunbeaten beaches, amongst honest cannibals and the more sophisticated
pioneers of our glorious virtues, a lady - distinguished in the world of letters
- summed up her disapproval of it by saying that the tales it produced were
decivilized. And in that sentence not only the tales but, I apprehend, the
strange people and the far-off countries also, are finally condemned in a
verdict of contemptuous dislike.
    A woman's judgment: intuitive, clever, expressed with felicitous charm -
infallible. A judgment that has nothing to do with justice. The critic and the
judge seems to think that in those distant lands all joy is a yell and a war
dance, all pathos is a howl and a ghastly grin of filed teeth, and that the
solution of all problems is found in the barrel of a revolver or on the point of
an assegai. And yet it is not so. But the erring magistrate may plead in excuse
the misleading nature of the evidence.
    The picture of life, there as here, is drawn with the same elaboration of
detail, coloured with the same tints. Only in the cruel serenity of the sky,
under the merciless brilliance of the sun, the dazzled eye misses the delicate
detail, sees only the strong outlines, while the colours, in the steady light,
seem crude and without shadow. Nevertheless it is the same picture.
    And there is a bond between us and that humanity so far away. I am speaking
here of men and women - not of the charming and graceful phantoms that move
about in our mud and smoke and are softly luminous with the radiance of all our
virtues; that are possessed of all refinements, of all sensibilities, of all
wisdom - but, being only phantoms, possess no heart.
    The sympathies of those are (probably) with the immortals: with the angels
above or the devils below. I am content to sympathize with common mortals, no
matter where they live; in houses or in tents, in the streets under a fog, or in
the forests behind the dark line of dismal mangroves that fringe the vast
solitude of the sea. For, their land - like ours - lies under the inscrutable
eyes of the Most High. Their hearts - like ours - must endure the load of the
gifts from Heaven: the curse of facts and the blessing of illusions, the
bitterness of
