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exaggeration； losing the exact notion of sincerity； and in the
end coming to despise truth itself as something too cold； too
blunt for his purposeas； in fact； not good enough for his
insistent emotion。 From laughter and tears the descent is easy
to snivelling and giggles。
These may seem selfish considerations； but you can't； in sound
morals； condemn a man for taking care of his own integrity。 It
is his clear duty。 And least of all you can condemn an artist
pursuing； however humbly and imperfectly； a creative aim。 In
that interior world where his thought and his emotions go seeking
for the experience of imagined adventures； there are no
policemen； no law； no pressure of circumstance or dread of
opinion to keep him within bounds。 Who then is going to say Nay
to his temptations if not his conscience？
And besidesthis； remember； is the place and the moment of
perfectly open talkI think that all ambitions are lawful except
those which climb upwards on the miseries or credulities of
mankind。 All intellectual and artistic ambitions are
permissible； up to and even beyond the limit of prudent sanity。
They can hurt no one。 If they are mad； then so much the worse
for the artist。 Indeed； as virtue is said to be； such ambitions
are their own reward。 Is it such a very mad presumption to
believe in the sovereign power of one's art； to try for other
means； for other ways of affirming this belief in the deeper
appeal of one's work？ To try to go deeper is not to be
insensible。 An historian of hearts is not an historian of
emotions； yet he penetrates further； restrained as he may be；
since his aim is to reach the very fount of laughter and tears。
The sight of human affairs deserves admiration and pity。 They
are worthy of respect too。 And he is not insensible who pays
them the undemonstrative tribute of a sigh which is not a sob；
and of a smile which is not a grin。 Resignation； not mystic； not
detached； but resignation open…eyed； conscious and informed by
love； is the only one of our feelings for which it is impossible
to become a sham。
Not that I think resignation the last word of wisdom。 I am too
much the creature of my time for that。 But I think that the
proper wisdom is to will what the gods will without perhaps being
certain what their will isor even if they have a will of their
own。 And in this matter of life and art it is not the Why that
matters so much to our happiness as the How。 As the Frenchman
said； 〃Il y a toujours la maniere。〃 Very true。 Yes。 There is
the manner。 The manner in laughter； in tears； in irony； in
indignations and enthusiasms； in judgmentsand even in love。
The manner in which； as in the features and character of a human
face； the inner truth is foreshadowed for those who know how to
look at their kind。
Those who read me know my conviction that the world； the temporal
world； rests on a few very simple ideas； so simple that they must
be as old as the hills。 It rests notably； amongst others； on the
idea of Fidelity。 At a time when nothing which is not
revolutionary in some way or other can expect to attract much
attention I have not been revolutionary in my writings。 The
revolutionary spirit is mighty convenient in this； that it frees
one from all scruples as regards ideas。 Its hard； absolute
optimism is repulsive to my mind by the menace of fanaticism and
intolerance it contains。 No doubt one should smile at these
things； but； imperfect Esthete； I am no better Philosopher。 All
claim to special righteousness awakens in me that scorn and anger
from which a philosophical mind should be free。 。 。
I fear that trying to be conversational I have only managed to be
unduly discursive。 I have never been very well acquainted with
the art of conversationthat art which； I understand； is
supposed to be lost now。 My young days； the days when one's
habits and character are formed； have been rather familiar with
long silences。 Such voices as broke into them were anything but
conversational。 No。 I haven't got the habit。 Yet this
discursiveness is not so irrelevant to the handful of pages which
follow。 They； too； have been charged with discursiveness； with
disregard of chronological order （which is in itself a crime）；
with unconventionality of form （which is an impropriety）。 I was
told severely that the public would view with displeasure the
informal character of my recollections。 〃Alas！〃 I protested
mildly。 〃Could I begin with the sacramental words； 'I was born
on such a date in such a place'？ The remoteness of the locality
would have robbed the statement of all interest。 I haven't lived
through wonderful adventures to be related seriatim。 I haven't
known distinguished men on whom I could pass fatuous remarks。 I
haven't been mixed up with great or scandalous affairs。 This is
but a bit of psychological document； and even so； I haven't
written it with a view to put forward any conclusion of my own。〃
But my objector was not placated。 These were good reasons for
not writing at allnot a defence of what stood written already；
he said。
I admit that almost anything； anything in the world； would serve
as a good reason for not writing at all。 But since I have
written them； all I want to say in their defence is that these
memories put down without any regard for established conventions
have not been thrown off without system and purpose。 They have
their hope and their aim。 The hope that from the reading of
these pages there may emerge at last the vision of a personality；
the man behind the books so fundamentally dissimilar as； for
instance； 〃Almayer's Folly〃 and 〃The Secret Agent〃and yet a
coherent； justifiable personality both in its origin and in its
action。 This is the hope。 The immediate aim； closely associated
with the hope； is to give the record of personal memories by
presenting faithfully the feelings and sensations connected with
the writing of my first book and with my first contact with the
sea。
In the purposely mingled resonance of this double strain a friend
here and there will perhaps detect a subtle accord。
J。C。K。
Chapter I。
Books may be written in all sorts of places。 Verbal inspiration
may enter the berth of a mariner on board a ship frozen fast in a
river in the middle of a town； and since saints are supposed to
look benignantly on humble believers； I indulge in the pleasant
fancy that the shade of old Flaubertwho imagined himself to be
（amongst o