Some Reminiscences | Page 3

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SOME REMINISCENCES 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 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 command 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 amongst 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. Amongst 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 austere Emperor 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-worthy sincerity 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 either
amongst my enemies or my friends