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The Nigger of the Narcissus, by Joseph ConradImage result for preface - joseph conrad - preface

Preface

A work that aspires, however humbly, to the condition of art should carry its justification in every line. And art itself may be defined as a single-minded attempt to render the highest kind of justice to the visible universe, by bringing to light the truth, manifold and one, underlying its every aspect. It is an attempt to find in its forms, in its colours, in its light, in its shadows, in the aspects of matter and in the facts of life, what of each is fundamental, what is enduring and essential — their one illuminating and convincing quality — the very truth of their existence.

The artist, then, like the thinker or the scientist, seeks the truth and makes his appeal. Impressed by the aspect of the world the thinker plunges into ideas, the scientist into facts — whence, presently, emerging they make their appeal to those qualities of our being that fit us best for the hazardous enterprise of living. They speak authoritatively to our common-sense, to our intelligence, to our desire of peace or to our desire of unrest; not seldom to our prejudices, sometimes to our fears, often to our egoism — but always to our credulity. And their words are heard with reverence, for their concern is with weighty matters: with the cultivation of our minds and the proper care of our bodies; with the attainment of our ambitions; with the perfection of the means and the glorification of our precious aims.

It is otherwise with the artist.

Confronted by the same enigmatical spectacle the artist descends within himself, and in that lonely region of stress and strife, if he be deserving and fortunate, he finds the terms of his appeal. His appeal is made to our less obvious capacities: to that part of our nature which, because of the warlike conditions of existence, is necessarily kept out of sight within the more resisting and hard qualities — like the vulnerable body within the steel armour. His appeal is less loud, more profound, less distinct, more stirring — and sooner forgotten.

Yet its effect endures for ever. The changing wisdom of successive generations discards ideas, questions facts, demolishes theories. But the artist appeals to that part of our being which is not dependent on wisdom: to that in us which is a gift and not an acquisition — and, therefore, more permanently enduring. He speaks to our capacity for delight and wonder, to the sense of mystery surrounding our lives; to our sense of pity, and beauty, and pain; to the latent feeling of fellowship with all creation — and to the subtle but invincible, conviction of solidarity that knits together the loneliness of innumerable hearts: to the solidarity in dreams, in joy, in sorrow, in aspirations, in illusions, in hope, in fear, which binds men to each other, which binds together all humanity — the dead to the living and the living to the unborn.

It is only some such train of thought, or rather of feeling, that can in a measure explain the aim of the attempt, made in the tale which follows, to present an unrestful episode in the obscure lives of a few individuals out of all the disregarded multitude of the bewildered, the simple and the voiceless. For, if there is any part of truth in the belief confessed above, it becomes evident that there is not a place of splendour or a dark corner of the earth that does not deserve, if only a passing glance of wonder and pity. The motive, then, may be held to justify the matter of the work; but this preface, which is simply an avowal of endeavour, cannot end here — for the avowal is not yet complete.

Fiction — if it at all aspires to be art — appeals to temperament. And in truth it must be, like painting, like music, like all art, the appeal of one temperament to all the other innumerable temperaments whose subtle and resistless power endows passing events with their true meaning, and creates the moral, the emotional atmosphere of the place and time. Such an appeal, to be effective, must be an impression conveyed through the senses; and, in fact, it cannot be made in any other way, because temperament, whether individual or collective, is not amenable to persuasion.

All art, therefore, appeals primarily to the senses, and the artistic aim when expressing itself in written words must also make its appeal through the senses, if its high desire is to reach the secret spring of responsive emotions. It must strenuously aspire to the plasticity of sculpture, to the colour of painting, and to the magic suggestiveness of music — which is the art of arts. And it is only through complete, unswerving devotion to the perfect blending of form and substance; it is only through an unremitting, never-discouraged care for the shape and ring of sentences that an approach can be made to plasticity, to colour; and the light of magic suggestiveness may be brought to play for an evanescent instant over the commonplace surface of words: of the old, old words, worn thin, defaced by ages of careless usage.

The sincere endeavour to accomplish that creative task, to go as far on that road as his strength will carry him, to go undeterred by faltering, weariness or reproach, is the only valid justification for the worker in prose. And if his conscience is clear, his answer to those who, in the fulness of a wisdom which looks for immediate profit, demand specifically to be edified, consoled, amused; who demand to be promptly improved, or encouraged, or frightened, or shocked, or charmed, must run thus:— My task which I am trying to achieve is, by the power of the written word, to make you hear, to make you feel — it is, before all, to make you see. That — and no more, and it is everything. If I succeed, you shall find there according to your deserts: encouragement, consolation, fear, charm — all you demand; and, perhaps, also that glimpse of truth for which you have forgotten to ask.

To snatch in a moment of courage, from the remorseless rush of time, a sapping phase of life is only the beginning of the task. The task approached in tenderness and faith is to hold up unquestioningly, without choice and without fear, the rescued fragment before all eyes and in the light of a sincere mood. It is to show its vibration, its colour, its form; and through its movement, its form, and its colour, reveal the substance of its truth — disclose its inspiring secret: the stress and passion within the core of each convincing moment. In a single-minded attempt of that kind, if one be deserving and fortunate, one may perchance attain to such clearness of sincerity that at last the presented vision of regret or pity, of terror or mirth, shall awaken in the hearts of the beholders that feeling of unavoidable solidarity; of the solidarity in mysterious origin, in toil, in joy, in hope, in uncertain fate, which binds men to each other and all mankind to the visible world.

It is evident that he who, rightly or wrongly, holds by the convictions expressed above cannot be faithful to any one of the temporary formulas of his craft. The enduring part of them — the truth which each only imperfectly veils — should abide with him as the most precious of his possessions, but they all: Realism, Romanticism, Naturalism, even the unofficial sentimentalism (which, like the poor, is exceedingly difficult to get rid of); all these gods must, after a short period of fellowship, abandon him — even on the very threshold of the temple — to the stammerings of his conscience and to the outspoken consciousness of the difficulties of his work. In that uneasy solitude the supreme cry of Art for Art, even, loses the exciting ring of its apparent immorality. It sounds far off. It has ceased to be a cry, and is heard only as a whisper, often incomprehensible, but at times, and faintly, encouraging.

Sometimes, stretched at ease in the shade of a roadside tree, we watch the motions of a labourer in a distant field, and after a time, begin to wonder languidly as to what the fellow may be at. We watch the movements of his body, the waving of his arms, we see him bend down, stand up, hesitate, begin again. It may add to the charm of an idle hour to be told the purpose of his exertions. If we know he is trying to lift a stone, to dig a ditch, to uproot a stump, we look with a more real interest at his efforts; we are disposed to condone the jar of his agitation upon the restfulness of the landscape; and even, if in a brotherly frame of mind, we may bring ourselves to forgive his failure. We understood his object, and, after all, the fellow has tried, and perhaps he had not the strength, and perhaps he had not the knowledge. We forgive, go on our way — and forget.

And so it is with the workman of art. Art is long and life is short, and success is very far off. And thus, doubtful of strength to travel so far, we talk a little about the aim — the aim of art, which, like life itself, is inspiring, difficult — obscured by mists. It is not in the clear logic of a triumphant conclusion; it is not in the unveiling of one of those heartless secrets which are called the Laws of Nature. It is not less great, but only more difficult.

To arrest, for the space of a breath, the hands busy about the work of the earth, and compel men entranced by the sight of distant goals to glance for a moment at the surrounding vision of form and colour, of sunshine and shadows; to make them pause for a look, for a sigh, for a smile — such is the aim, difficult and evanescent, and reserved only for a very few to achieve. But sometimes, by the deserving and the fortunate, even that task is accomplished. And when it is accomplished — behold! — all the truth of life is there: a moment of vision, a sigh, a smile — and the return to an eternal rest....................source

Read 2313 times Last modified on Monday, 11 February 2019 16:04

When we see through the programming, the lies, the misdirection that holds us to our slave existence and our slave jobs that serves those who dominate us, and we are willing to suffer the consequences of saying no to all of it and when our numbers grow, maybe then we can toss the water onto the wicked witch of the east and watch her shrivle up into lie goo, deader than a door nail

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The Hitlerian Awareness Pyramid that could connect the Jew-wise resistance

Hitler was a Uniter, not a divider. When he was winning the people to his philosophy it was more about challenging class warfare than it was about dealing with race warspart I...partII
The Jew, though, was the exception, viewed as a parasite, infiltrator and a people, as a whole, up to no good whose lying talent had worked so well against the majority of the populace. 

Snap1

This was a "race" that wasn't really a race but a brain-washed in mindset, successfully accomplished by rigorous dedication to a cause and belief that they (the Jews) were better than anyone else and the only true humans on the planet (animals can't own anything and from thus springs their justified logic of noble cause and "right to own").

Everything or body, else, was to be used and disposed of without a second thought.  People being people and born with the human trait of empathy makes that a constant challenge for satan's messengers (instilling in young Jews a hatred to take empathy's place in line) but so far it looks like the efforts have brought them up to the shores of total victory needing only lose ends being tightened and straightened to thus roll out the red carpet for the Jewish messiah and a new age for all, Jews openly in control, the prophecies fullfilled!

Snap24nbng

Being a thinking man, I have to assume that "The Diaspora"  had little to do with being kicked out of Jerusalem and much more to do with a Jewish strategy of world rule as prophesied in the Talmud and the Torah and reiterated in "The Protocols of Zion". This, then, meant that Jews approached non-Jews as folks that were holding what was rightfully THEIR property, since animals can't own property (Till this be rectified, the Jew will continue to cry persecution as he strikes the goy down!).

As Jews say, "Bad Goy!" 

Hitler got all that. Hitler got that the Jew was the "great master of lies".
Hitler got that the Jews stabbed Germany in the back by leading work strikes in the fatherland at a vulnerable time during WWI.
Hitler got that Jews were your friend until it was to their advantage not to be your friend.
He got that Jews have no qualms about lying to non-Jews.

If Hitler was advocating a race war, it was against the Jewish race and yes, he saw clearly that the Jews, themselves, saw fellow Jews through the race prism. They were at war, a war they kept most gentiles from realizing was being fought and Hitler had to find a way to handle Germany's Jews to end the madness.

Ultimately, after great success with that, the fact that he handled his German Jews  left him vulnerable to the Jewish con-men, in every other goyim land to sway the trusting masses with repeated lies that the enemy and curse to the human race was the 3rd Reich and Adolph Hitler. Jews began to mutter about an "evil German seed" needing eradicating

Control of the media outside of Germany kept the few good men, elsewhere, from getting the true message across, that Hitler's leadership was great for his race and his nation. This was, easily, demonstrated by seeing the results in their accomplishments done by delinking Jewish power from influence over Germany's internal affairs.

BL - Easily done but like with Charlottesville in Aug. 2017, facts on the ground and what Jews report about facts on the ground often have little in common so the goyim world-wide only heard the negative and but for a few men like a Joseph Kennedy, all were under a world menace arising in Germany.

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