Twilight of the Godlings and the Dark Gulf of the Soul: Conrad’s Nautical Existentialism

Born Józef Teodor Konrad Korzeniowski in Polish Ukraine, then under Russian rule, Conrad spent his formative years in exile, a circumstance that shaped his worldview and infused his writing with a sense of dislocation and ambivalence. This outsider’s perspective allowed him to observe human nature with a detachment that bordered on ruthlessness, yet his portrayals are never devoid of empathy. His characters, whether they are the idealistic Jim, the enigmatic Kurtz, or the disillusioned Nostromo, are rendered with a psychological depth that highlights the fragility of human ideals and the corrosive effects of ambition and failure. Conrad’s prose, with its intricate syntax and layered meanings, mirrors the complexity of the inner lives he depicts, creating a narrative texture that is as demanding as it is rewarding.

Conrad's psychological portraiture remains unparalleled but unrecognized in English literature. A lifelong seafarer turned novelist, he was fluent in several languages and drew heavily on his own experiences as a sailor and traveler in his writing. The maritime world, which serves as the backdrop for much of his work, is more than a setting; it is a crucible where human nature is stripped of its pretensions and laid bare. Conrad’s years at sea provided him with a wealth of material, but they also instilled in him a profound understanding of the tensions between individual agency and the indifferent forces of nature and society. His narratives often explore the limits of human control, the ways in which characters are shaped—and often undone—by circumstances beyond their comprehension or control. This theme is particularly evident in works like Lord Jim and The Shadow-Line, where the sea becomes a metaphor for the existential challenges that define the human condition. Yet Conrad’s vision is not merely pessimistic; his characters’ struggles, however futile, are imbued with a kind of tragic dignity, a recognition of the resilience and tenacity of the human spirit.

Conrad’s Nostromo occupies a pivotal position within his oeuvre, serving as both a culmination of his earlier thematic preoccupations and a bridge to his later, more explicitly political works. The novel’s intricate narrative structure, characterized by its fragmented chronology and polyphonic voices, exemplifies Conrad’s engagement with modernist techniques while retaining the moral and psychological depth that defines his earlier maritime tales. Situating Nostromo within the broader trajectory of Conrad’s literary career requires an examination of its epistemic matrices, particularly its interrogation of the interplay between individual agency and historical forces. The novel’s codicological evidence—its manuscript drafts, revisions, and editorial interventions—reveals a deliberate effort to foreground the tension between personal idealism and systemic exploitation, a theme that resonates with the socio-institutional networks of Conrad’s time. The transmission vectors of Nostromo, from its serialized publication in T.P.’s Weekly to its final book form, further underscore Conrad’s evolving engagement with the material conditions of literary production and reception.

The fable of Nostromo tells the story of an Italian sailor named Giovanni Battista Fidanza, better known as Nostromo, and his experiences in the fictional South American country of Costaguana. The novel follows Nostromo as he becomes entangled in a complex web of political and personal intrigue and struggles to navigate the conflicting demands of loyalty, honor, and self-interest. Nostromo is a deeply loyal and honorable man, but he is also torn between his loyalty to his friends and his duty to his country. As a sailor and adventurer, Conrad himself traveled to many remote and exotic places and encountered a variety of people and cultures, experiences that undoubtedly influenced the themes and characters of Nostromo.

Conrad's "twilight country" of Costaguana is an expansive microcosm of post-colonial Imperialist exploitation, layered revolutions, political turmoil, macro-economics, and the moral weight of silver on every type of person. His characters are unwittingly subjected to the irreconcilable antagonism of egotism and altruism while they await "impatiently the Dawns of other New Eras, the coming of more revolutions." His IR theory is deeply Realist but closely woven into his psychological portraiture, detailing the two-sided blade of Imperialism that destroys the economic hegemon's soul alongside the material robbery of the oppressed. As in all his literature, Conrad here replies to the spectrum of ideologies and demagogues with a cynical, existentialist warning; that in a world where politics have replaced religion, making Progress a blood-stained faith, no political panacea can render equality and peace into the societies of the world without addressing the broken condition of man on a metaphysical and moral level first. He finds the demonization and mockery of Capitalism to be childish, a result of emotional underdevelopment, as is its deification. Despite writing some of the greatest works of political analysis of his century, Conrad is deeply skeptical, warning against political dogma altogether and finding tremendous irony in the stark-mad ravings of the socio-economic debates of his day. Because circumambient Sulaco waits in perpetuity for the individual, "the darkness defying—as men said—the knowledge of God and the wit of the devil."

Sulaco exists in a Neverland, which, although ravaged by colonial forces, seems to exist in a vacuum. The deep and all-pervasive darkness of the gulf dominates the feel of the work, against which all the plots of men are petty and fleeting; an Absurd abyss that all must face at the end of their story. This darkness engulfing Sulaco is nearly sentient; "the blackness seemed to weigh upon Decoud like a stone." And Decoud is the first to face this abyss. Stranded on the island with nothing to do, nothing to fight for, the raw, uninterrupted flow of his own existence becomes alien and intolerable to him, drawing him into madness. On the mainland, all the ramblings of men are rendered meaningless when face-to-face with the watches of the long night.

Before anything else can be said of Nostromo, it must first be said that he is alone. He is not detailed as much as he is evoked; he is the apparition which faces the dark before we do. Nostromo's tragedy is the demise of the noble and authentic man who was "in the firm grip of the earth he inherits." He is friendless in his nobility, surrounded by dangerous catastrophes and powerful international conspiracies that seek to use him for his prestige and incorruptibility. Yet the truest danger comes from himself, as it did for Kurtz and Decoud; neither shipwreck nor revolution threatened his existence like what came darkly from within.

Conrad's prose is dark and ebbs and flows, leaving the reader enclosed in the mythology he creates. He overlaps Polish syntax onto his second language, English, which gives his writing a unique cadence. He repeatedly weaves in descriptions of nature into the narrative about the intricacies of the goings-on of mankind, giving a romantic personification to nature, particularly the night. The best-laid plans of mice and men wax insignificant against the night: "These words were in strange contrast to the prevailing peace—to this almost solid stillness of the gulf." The layered circumvallation built by age after age of colonizers and revolutionaries is petty when contrasted by the immortal depth of the dark, glassy gulf.

Nostromo becomes corrupted, not through ideology, but through feelings of bitterness and resentment. A man does not hold a belief as true because it is rational, logical, or noble, but because of how that idea makes them feel. He is destroyed from within. Nostromo, the Capitalist stalwart-turned-Marxist, is destroyed by the silver just the same; ideology does not protect one from the void. Here Conrad shows his dry cynicism; all men meet their end alone, regardless of their creed and politics. In the end, both primary characters are destroyed by the darkness of the gulf—one by madness and one by greed.

The philosophical underpinnings of Conrad’s work are rooted in a skepticism toward grand narratives and a preoccupation with the complexities of human motivation. His characters, whether they are idealists like Gould or cynics like Decoud, are often undone by their inability to reconcile their aspirations with the realities of their circumstances. This tension between idealism and pragmatism is a recurring theme in Conrad’s fiction, reflecting his broader critique of the utopian impulses of modernity. In The Secret Agent, for instance, the anarchist plot is less a political statement than a meditation on the futility of ideological absolutism. Verloc’s moral inertia and the banal incompetence of the conspirators highlight the contradictions and self-serving nature of human motivations, suggesting that ideology often serves as a mask for more primal drives.

Conrad borrowed language from G.K. Chesterton, who was a contemporary living in London at the same time. In his 1914 book Heretics, Chesterton devoted a chapter to Conrad, acknowledging his literary skill, admiring his philosophical prose, but expressing reservations about Conrad’s teleological worldview. He believed that he describes beautifully the existential dread of the heart, but goes no further. Chesterton believed that Conrad's fiction was dominated by a kind of cosmic pessimism and moral ambiguity that he, as a theologically-inclined writer, found an accurate representation of the Nihilism of the Modernism he raged against. Both saw “the Cult of Progress” as the tyrants of the future, and Conrad included this phrase in his novel “the inheritors”.

Chesterton admired the beauty of Conrad’s prose but saw in it a disturbing absence of moral clarity or affirmation, especially compared to his own more metaphysically anchored view of the universe. Both authors criticized Colonialism and heavily condemned Social Darwinism. He writes in Chapter 14 of Heretics "On Certain Modern Writers and the Institution of the Family":

“Mr. Joseph Conrad is a man of genius; but he is a Slav—and a pessimist. He sees the world not only with sadness but with cruelty. He sees the sea as something savage and elemental; it is not the English sea, the playground of sailors and children. He sees the tropics as infernos of incongruous lust and terror; he does not see them as the background of bright tales for boys. He sees man as a creature physically feeble and mentally futile, caught in a trap of monstrous forces, vainly contending against destinies too vast for his vision. It is a noble pessimism; it is a moral pessimism; but it is a pessimism.

His atmosphere is one in which men go mad rather than forward. The colour is lurid and disturbing, the passion is at once intense and fruitless, the conclusion is always an inconclusive sadness. There is no trace in him of that English tradition of effort and expansion, of that deep, half-conscious conviction that life is meant to be lived, and can be lived well. There is a breathlessness in his pursuit of horror and futility which, though it may often be magnificent, is always un-English. He is a great artist, but the ultimate note of his art is not hope, or even endurance—it is surrender. He gives us no bridge by which we may return from the abyss. He shows us the abyss itself, and no more.

Now, I have no desire to deny that Mr. Conrad’s impressionism is both beautiful and sincere. But I do say that it is essentially not the impressionism of health, not the impressionism of innocence. It is too bitter to be honest; it is too dark to be true. We are not in the presence of mere impartial analysis. We are in the presence of a particular man with a particular mood, a mood which may be noble, but which certainly is not general or just. It is not an atmosphere in which the soul can breathe. It is the atmosphere of the cave, not the temple; of the crypt, not the cathedral. There is something inherently suffocating, something imprisoning, in the very power of the vision.”

Conrad’s narrative techniques, characterized by their complexity and ambiguity, are integral to his thematic concerns. His use of frame narratives, unreliable narrators, and non-linear chronologies creates a sense of epistemological instability that mirrors the moral and psychological uncertainties of his characters. In Under Western Eyes, for example, the shifting perspectives and fragmented structure reflect Razumov’s internal conflict and the broader political turmoil of revolutionary Russia. The novel’s exploration of betrayal and identity is rendered all the more poignant by its narrative complexity, which resists easy resolution and instead invites a more nuanced understanding of its themes. This narrative strategy, which Conrad employed throughout his career, reflects his broader engagement with the modernist project of redefining the novel as a form capable of capturing the complexities of experience.

The reception dynamics of Conrad’s work have been shaped by the shifting intellectual and cultural currents of the 20th century. Early critics often focused on his formal innovation and psychological insight, while later scholars, particularly those working within postcolonial and Marxist frameworks, have highlighted the limitations of his engagement with imperialism and modernity. These divergent readings underscore the richness and complexity of Conrad’s work, which resists fixed interpretation and instead invites ongoing dialogue and debate. This resistance to closure is perhaps the defining characteristic of Conrad’s fiction, reflecting his broader skepticism toward ideological certainty and his commitment to the irreducible complexity of human experience.

The characters themselves are always assuming the motivations of the others. He seems to be sketching out the Dostoevskian idea here that mankind is not prone toward logical decisions; in fact, mankind needs to be illogical sometimes—it is an intrinsic part of our humanity. This is the chaos of the will. Thus all the Utilitarians, Utopians, and Ideologues of all stripes cannot possibly have a perfect political answer for the governing of inherently illogical groups of people. Gould's business partners wax about his motivations: "Simply that he cannot act or exist without idealizing every simple feeling, desire, or achievement. He could not believe his own motives if he did not make them first a part of some fairy tale. The earth is not quite good enough for him; I fear." And Gould argues that he is a realist with no nobility to lean upon like Nostromo: "Life for me is not a moral romance derived from the tradition of a pretty fairy tale. I am not afraid of my motivations."

Conrad becomes a moralist when asking questions about the dual nature of mankind between egotism and altruism; and in asking these moral questions on the level of individual consciousness, he becomes an existentialist. He describes altruism as "An objectlessness and necessary sincerity of one's innermost life trying to react upon the profound sympathies of another existence." But ultimately, egotism taints even the most well-meaning, strong, and noble individuals, a worldview developed by Conrad through life as a sailor; the contrast between the intricacies and intimacy of a ship and the infinite, immortal horizon circumambient it.

Conrad’s existentialism is deeply rooted in his maritime experiences, where the vast, unyielding sea serves as a metaphor for the indifferent universe. The sea, with its boundless horizons and unpredictable tempests, mirrors the human condition—fraught with uncertainty and existential dread. This nautical existentialism permeates his works, where characters are often cast adrift in moral and psychological turmoil, grappling with their own insignificance in the face of an uncaring cosmos. The sea, both a liberator and a prison, becomes a crucible for Conrad’s characters, testing their resolve and revealing their innermost fears and desires.

Conrad’s literary project is at least in part an inquiry into the instability of meaning, a theme that permeates his work through its formal and thematic preoccupations. His narratives, often fragmented and layered, resist linearity, mirroring the fractured nature of perception and memory. This structural complexity is not merely aesthetic but epistemological, reflecting Conrad’s skepticism toward grand narratives and his insistence on the provisionality of truth. Characters in his fiction frequently grapple with the elusiveness of understanding, whether in their attempts to decipher the motivations of others or to reconcile their own actions with their ideals. This preoccupation with ambiguity and uncertainty positions Conrad as a precursor to modernist concerns, even as his work remains rooted in the moral and psychological realism of the 19th century.

The maritime settings that dominate much of Conrad’s oeuvre are not incidental but integral to his exploration of existential themes. The sea, with its vastness and unpredictability, serves as a metaphor for the unknowable and the uncontrollable, a space where human agency is both tested and undermined. It is a realm of paradox, offering freedom while imposing isolation, promising adventure while delivering peril. This duality is central to Conrad’s vision, as his characters navigate not only the physical challenges of the sea but also the psychological and moral dilemmas it exacerbates. The maritime world, with its rigid hierarchies and codes of conduct, becomes a microcosm of broader societal structures, revealing the tensions between individual autonomy and collective responsibility.

Conrad’s engagement with colonialism further complicates his exploration of power, morality, and identity. His works often depict the collision of cultures and ideologies, exposing the contradictions and hypocrisies inherent in imperialist projects. Yet Conrad’s critique is rarely straightforward; his portrayals of colonial encounters are marked by ambivalence, reflecting both the brutality of exploitation and the fragility of the systems that sustain it. This ambivalence extends to his characters, who are frequently caught between competing loyalties and conflicting moral imperatives. Conrad’s refusal to offer clear resolutions or moral judgments underscores his broader skepticism toward ideological certainty, a stance that aligns him with the existentialist currents of his time, yet his criticism of Imperialism was a century ahead of his day:

"He had breathed the air of England longer than any of his people had done for three generations, and really he begged to be excused. His poor father could be eloquent, too. And he asked his wife whether she remembered a passage in one of his father's last letters where Mr. Gould had expressed the conviction that 'God looked wrathfully at these countries, or else He would let some ray of hope fall through a rift in the appalling darkness of intrigue, bloodshed, and crime that hung over the Queen of Continents.'"

(Nostromo)

"The conquest of the earth, which mostly means the taking it away from those who have a different complexion or slightly flatter noses than ourselves, is not a pretty thing when you look into it too much. What redeems it is the idea only. An idea at the back of it; not a sentimental pretence but an idea; and an unselfish belief in the idea—something you can set up, and bow down before, and offer a sacrifice to..."

(Heart of Darkness)

The philosophical underpinnings of Conrad’s work are deeply intertwined with his narrative techniques. His use of unreliable narrators, shifting perspectives, and non-linear chronologies creates a sense of epistemological instability that mirrors the moral and psychological uncertainties of his characters. This narrative complexity is not merely a stylistic choice but a reflection of Conrad’s broader philosophical commitments. By foregrounding the provisionality of truth and the limitations of human understanding, Conrad challenges readers to engage with his work on multiple levels, resisting the temptation to reduce it to a single interpretation. This resistance to closure is perhaps the defining characteristic of his fiction, reflecting his belief in the irreducible complexity of human experience.

Despite his literary achievements, Conrad’s life was marked by a series of personal and professional challenges that mirrored the themes of his work. His health, never robust, was further undermined by the physical and emotional toll of his years at sea and the relentless demands of his writing. Financial instability was a constant concern, forcing him to balance the demands of artistic integrity with the need to secure his livelihood. These struggles, far from diminishing his work, seem to have deepened its emotional resonance, infusing his narratives with a sense of urgency and authenticity. Conrad’s fiction, with its exploration of moral ambiguity and existential uncertainty, reflects the complexities of his own life, a life marked by both triumph and adversity. His death at the age of 66 marked the end of a career that had redefined the possibilities of the novel, leaving behind a body of work that continues to challenge and inspire readers with its psychological depth and moral complexity. Conrad’s legacy lies in his ability to capture the tensions and contradictions of his era while anticipating the concerns of later literary movements. His work, with its formal innovation and thematic depth, occupies a unique position at the intersection of Victorian moralism and modernist experimentation. Conrad highlights the fragility of human aspirations and the enduring power of the forces that shape them. This tension between individual agency and historical determinism, between idealism and pragmatism, is the defining feature of his fiction, and it is what gives his work its enduring relevance and complexity—with an atmospheric existentialism unlike any of the English novelists of his day.

 —-

"The earth seemed unearthly. We are accustomed to look upon the shackled form of a conquered monster, but there—there you could look at a thing monstrous and free. It was unearthly, and the men were—No, they were not inhuman. Well, you know, that was the worst of it—this suspicion of their not being inhuman. It would come slowly to one. They howled and leaped, and spun, and made horrid faces; but what thrilled you was just the thought of their humanity—like yours—the thought of your remote kinship with this wild and passionate uproar. Ugly. Yes, it was ugly enough; but if you were man enough you would admit to yourself that there was in you just the faintest trace of a response to the terrible frankness of that noise, a dim suspicion of there being a meaning in it which you—you so remote from the night of first ages—could comprehend. And why not? The mind of man is capable of anything—because everything is in it, all the past as well as all the future. What was there after all? Joy, fear, sorrow, devotion, valour, rage—who can tell?—but truth—truth stripped of its cloak of time. Let the fool gape and shudder—the man knows, and can look on without a wink."