The finest and deepest effects of Conrad's art are always found when,
in the process of the story, some solitary man and woman encounter
each other, far from civilization, and tearing off, as it were, the
mask of one another's souls, are confronted by a deeper and more
inveterate mystery--the eternal mystery of difference, which separates
all men born into the world and keeps us perpetually alone. In the
case of Heyst and Lena--of Flora de Barral and her Captain Anthony--of
Charles and Mrs. Gould--of Aissa and Willems--of Almayer's daughter
and her Malay lover, Mr. Conrad takes up the ancient planetary theme
of the loves of men and women and throws upon it a sudden, original,
and singularly stimulating light; a light, that like a lantern carried
down into the very Cave of the "Mothers," throws its flickering and
ambiguous rays over the large, dumb, formless shapes--the primordial
motives of human hearts--which grope and fumble in that thick
darkness.
The style of Conrad, simpler than that of James, less monumental than
that of Hardy, has nevertheless a certain forward-driving impetus
hardly less effective than these more famous mediums of expression.
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