Myth and Space in Nostromo
Jeroen Keip
0321362
Dr. Gene Moore
MA Thesis English Language and Culture
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Chapter list
Introduction…………………………………………………………………………………….3
1. De Lange’s Mythical Space…………………………………………………………………5
2. The Spatial Element………………………………………………………………………..11
3. Lev Manovich’ Database Theory………………………………………………………......20
4. Various Paradigms…………………………………………………………………………25
Conclusion……………………………………………………………………………………41
Works Cited…………………………………………………………………………………..42
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Introduction
Joseph Conrad’s Nostromo is widely seen as the Polish-born author’s greatest
achievement, taking up a place in an oeuvre that counts several classics and stands as
monument in English literature. It is for this reason that Conrad’s work has been a fruitful
subject of critical discourse for over a century. The result of all that scrutiny is that his most
famous novels have been released in scholarly editions replete with extras like alternate
versions of certain passages, extensive information on the author and notes throughout the
text that point to an index in the back. A text with the density of Nostromo potentially
produces a big number of notes, in the case of the Penguin Classics edition from 2007, used
for the purposes of this thesis, the number of notes is no less than 157.
Plainly looking at these notes gives an insight in a few things. One of these is the fact
that they are a sign of the how things have changed that references that were easy to grasp in
the early 20th century were deemed to be in need of clarification in 2007. It also reminds one,
looking at the references to the Italian revolution, of Conrad’s determination to anchor his
novel in reality with references to actual political and revolutionary situations early in the
novel. Simply said, the notes offer a glimpse of the underpinnings of the density of Nostromo
and how much of them are anchored in actual history, while also showing a strong intention
for writing a novel that was to be relevant to the human condition in general.
In a class I followed in 2010, one of the texts discussed was a chapter by Lev
Manovich on database theory, in which he argues that the way in which digital media work
offers a model for the way various media work, including more traditional media. At that
time, we applied the database theory to film, and saw ways in which a film might refer to a
mythology without going into detail. The result was that that mythology, even if it was
touched on only superficially, was able to give a film extra power just by the connotations of
the referring to the mythology.
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Reading through the notes of Nostromo, it is hard not to be struck by the dynamics
between the notes and their One could have a pleasurable and educational experience of
Nostromo without completely understanding or knowing its storyline and characters. Since
writing of any form is as much about what one leaves out as what one puts in, and what to
leave to the imagination, they give an insight in the processes of thinking and writing on
Conrad’s part. It was these notes that sparked the curiosity that has led to this thesis, in which
I will explain how Conrad’s selection of references contributes to the density and power of
Nostromo. The thesis statement of this paper is: Nostromo is a hypernarrative in Manovich’
sense, an example of a narrative that has the potential for limitless interpretations.
To the end of testing this statement, I will refer to A.M. De Lange’s essay on mythical
space, Lev Manovich’ database theory and Claire Rosenfield’s archetypal analysis of the
novel, among others. The first chapter focuses on explaining and applying De Lange’s
analysis. The second chapter elaborates on the spatial elements of Rosenfield’s essay using
supplementary material from Edward W. Said among others. The third chapter explains
Manovich’ theories and how they can be linked to Nostromo and De Lange’s theories. In the
fourth chapter the implications of the fusion and application of the theories of mythical space
and database will be illustrated by examples from the novel. In the fifth chapter and
conclusion I will discuss the validity of the thesis statement and address the implications of
that result.
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1: De Lange’s Mythical Space
De Lange’s essay “Transcribing/Inscribing Mythical Space in Conrad’s Nostromo”
aims to place the novel within Conrad’s oeuvre on thematic grounds, and then characterise the
way it is written within a philosophical context. He characterises Nostromo as standing on the
threshold of the epistemological and ontological approaches to reality.
Three distinctive patterns emerge in [The Nigger of the “Narcissus”, Heart of
Darkness, Lord Jim and Nostromo], the first being the fact that the reader’s complex
and daunting task of engaging with, and interpreting the text is simulated by the way
in which characters attempt to penetrate the atmosphere evoked by their surroundings
and “read” and “interpret” the “space” which confronts them. The replication and
simulation of this intricate process is foregrounded through the various configurations
of atmosphere descriptions, narrative disjunctions and thematic obfuscation. (De
Lange 127)
Nostromo shows the most significant development in the epistemological –
ontological dialectic as it is not predominantly concerned with “reading maps” (Heart
of Darkness) or “reading for the centre,” (Lord Jim) but rather with the process of
“mythmaking,” of “transcribing” and “inscribing” preferred myths into the “centre.”
Nostromo is propelled by an interactive dynamic which exists between notions of
“reading” and “writing” space. This dynamic lies at the heart of the mythical space of
Nostromo: there is no single dominant space which has to be “read,” no single “text”
which needs to be deciphered, no “master” narrative which has to be interpreted.
Instead, there is only, in Terry Eagleton’s words, an “absent centre” (138). (De Lange
128-129)
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The introduction of “mythical space” is where De Lange does not go far enough in
defining both parts of the term. He disassociates his use of myth from the more explicit uses
like Rosenfield’s archetypal analysis, bringing his definition of the word back to “illusive”
and “not ‘real’” (De Lange 142).
As the reader progresses, however, the landscape, which creates an impression of
massive solidity, does not seem so solid any more. What really lies at the centre of the
geography of Sulaco, says Roussel, is not Higuerota, but “the darkness” of the Golfo Placido”
(109), a space which “confounds the objects of everyday life into one homogeneous
obscurity” (109). In the same way, the “profusion of ‘authors’ who use the land as a slate on
which to inscribe their personal narratives” (Fisher 16-17), and their resulting “inscriptions”
of Nostromo, do not create the impression of solidity, but rather that of insubstantiality, of a
mythical figure roaming a vast mythical space. (De Lange 129-130)
A second important characteristic of mythmaking which underscores the ontological
element in this process has to do with the element of controlling or “domesticating”
one’s environment by “inscribing” it with one’s own values, and endowing it with
meaning, thereby exerting power and controlling it. It is in this context that Conroy
can argue that it “is true, of course, that any kind of description of a landscape, by
encompassing through discourse what is described (or more correctly, what is created),
will be definition ‘textualize’ what it describes (or creates) and so transform it. But it
is the specific way the Sulaco setting is textualized, and the way in which that
textualizing process is foregrounded, that is crucial” (149).
This “textualizing process” is illustrative of the way in which Nostromo deviates from
strategies used in earlier texts by adding the ontological aspect of “constructing”
reality, of mythmaking, of “transcribing” and “inscribing” public and private myths
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into the narrative space usually dominated by epistemological questions.
“Transcribing” and “inscribing” can be used to “sub-divide” the metaphorical
process of “writing” in Nostromo into two categories, the attempts at transcribing
public myths, rewriting them as the various “writers” go along, or of the efforts to
inscribe public myth into the narrative space. (De Lange 130-131)
In the quotation above De Lange introduces “transcribing” and “inscribing” as two
different activities. This is at odds with how he describes the process of it and also In this
sense, the forward slash between “transcribing” and “inscribing” in the title of the novel does
not so much posit them as being two different activities, but presents them as two sides of the
same coin. When a person is “transcribing” his or her ideas of another person or an
occurrence, isn’t he or she simultaneously “inscribing” those ideas? There is no essential
difference between the two acts, since they consist of the same activity. Whether or not
someone is meaning to “inscribe” or “transcribe”, the result is that he or she does both with
the same speech act.
The myth of the American sailors presented in the opening chapter underscores two
relevant points central to the argument. First, it illustrates the way in which a story is
transcribed in to folklore, becoming a powerful charm that will dissuade anybody from
having ideas of plundering the gold deposit. Secondly, this procedure illustrates how
individual or group myths are “projected” onto or inscribed into a space, thereby
becoming the power which transforms the old space into something new. (De Lange
131-132)
In this passage, De Lange is the most concrete about the implications of his theory
where it concerns actual physical space. The American sailors and their story are forever
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linked to an actual physical space, the Azuera. In the second chapter, a further elaboration will
be made of this spatial link.
The history of the mine is documented almost like that of the Gould family, revealing
how generations of people – slaves, Indians, English companies, the Costaguanan
government – had all been caught in its spell. The San Tomé mine is at the “centre” of
all the action in the novel. But it also echoes the symbolic idea of an “absent centre.”
The mine is a hole with a “dark centre,” leading the mineworkers ever deeper into its
labyrinth in search of its hidden “ore.” And when it has been reached, the search
continues for new veins which will yield more silver. Seen in this context, it has no
real “centre” in which all the silver is to be found; in constantly defers the search for
the “centre,” for finality, for closure. It is in this sense that the mine becomes a
metaphor for the reading process: the reader is constantly trying to find the “centre” of
the novel – trying to “inscribe” Nostromo into the centre of the narrative space – only
to find that there is no fixed centre to be located as Nostromo can only really be
“placed” in the immense darkness of the Gulfo (sic) Placido. (De Lange 135)
Dr. Monygham has “written” Nostromo into a different kind of space from that of
Captain Mitchell, not that of “hero”, but of “philanderer, egotistical and deceitful
schemer, “ and it is for the reader to weigh and consider these and other Nostromo
“myths” as he or she engages with the text. (De Lange 137)
Complementary and contradictory, these many attempts to “write” Nostromo into one
or another kind of space are all attempts to capture the pervasive influence of
Nostromo in some form or another, which, along with the reader’s construction of his
or her own version, all constitute the “Nostromo myth.” (De Lange 138)
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Only by taking a more holistic view and considering the interaction between the
epistemological and ontological components of Conrad’s fiction as a dynamic, a
dynamic in constant flux, will one be able to understand and appreciate the intricate
reciprocity of the descriptive, narrative and thematic elements which constitute his
fictional space and atmosphere. (140)
Nostromo brings an additional element of freedom into this process, as it is, among all
other things implied by the text, a novel about “writing” the centre as the characters
can clearly be seen as “writing” their space,” “transcribing” preferred myths into the
“centre” in such a way which transforms them into new myths, thereby becoming
supplements with which both character and reader “inscribe” his or her own myth into
the space in which we live. (De Lange 140-141)
The point De Lange posits here is interesting, because he does not characterise the
processes going on in Nostromo as leading to an interactive experience for the reader, how
could he, but does show us how the reader can be in dialogue with the novel. The fact that
various characters are doing their best, and failing, to give permanent meaning to the
occurrences and people around them is inviting to the reader.
[I]t is clear that Nostromo does present its own creative process and makes significant
demands on the reader to follow it analeptic and proleptic narrative. As such is
definitely qualifies as “metafiction”. (De Lange 141)
The definition of metafiction is that it has to be about itself. Conrad does not give the
reader clear-cut answers on how to interpret the novel, but might be making them part of his
own problems in judging the themes, occurrences and characters in the novel. In that way, we
can indeed see Nostromo as a “writerly” text in the Barthesian sense because it invites the
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reader to see its inner workings and do his or her part in it, effectively writing the novel along
with the author (De Lange 139).
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2: The spatial element
Nostromo brings an additional element of freedom into this process, as it is, among all
other things implied by the text, a novel about “writing” the centre as the characters
can clearly be seen as “writing” their space,” “transcribing” preferred myths into the
“centre” in such a way which transforms them into new myths, thereby becoming
supplements with which both character and reader “inscribe” his or her own myth into
the space in which we live. (De Lange 140-141)
De Lange analysis of mythical space in Nostromo is a valid one, yet he misses a trick
when it comes to a further elaboration of “the space in which we live” (141). While his
analysis does fit the metaphorical meaning of space in the sense of a place that can be filled,
“the space” in which we live requires a further investigation. De Lange here refers to actual
physical space, but he never follows up on that. In this chapter, this void in De Lange’s
analysis will be filled by linking his analysis to theories about the mythical and historical
power of actual physical space, and Rosenfield’s archetypal analysis of the landscape of
Sulaco.
The city of Sulaco, along with its environs, is the stage for the primary action in
Nostromo. It is situated along a gulf called the Golfo Placido and on land it is completely
separated from the rest of Costaguanan by a mountain range. The country is a highly
contested one with revolution following revolution. When Sulaco starts to distinguish itself
because of its efficiently run silver mine, it becomes a major factor in the political life of
Costaguanan. Since the novel is populated by characters of various nationalities and
backgrounds, it offers a range of views on the country and its history, including to whom it
belongs and why. In his article “Invention, Memory and Place”, Edward W. Said offers his
analysis of the power of imagination on the politics and history of places and countries. He
offers the theory that national and international struggles are based on different parties living
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by different imagined narratives: “National identity always involves narratives – of the
nation’s past, its founding fathers and documents, seminal events and so son. But these
narratives are never undisputed or merely a matter of the neutral recital of facts.” (Said 177).
Sulaco is a political boiling pot. Even though the lucrative exploitation of the mine
supposedly has beneficial effects for the whole of Sulaco, violence in the streets is an almost
daily occurrence. It is this highly-charged situation that sharpens up all the relationships and
puts pressure on the characters and their beliefs. This essay is about the part the landscape of
Sulaco plays in the experience of these characters, and the influence it has on their actions
Nostromo sets its spatial parameters right away in the first chapter. It contains nothing
but visual description, while not a word is spent on the description of any character or human
activity. The novel starts off with a strong visual description of the geography of Sulaco, no
doubt out because of the importance the locations and their spatial arrangement have in the
rest of the novel.
Sulaco had found an inviolable sanctuary from the temptations of a trading world in
the solemn hush of the deep Golfo Placido as if within an enormous semi-circular and
unroofed temple open to the ocean, with its walls of lofty mountains hung with the
mourning draperies of cloud. (Conrad 5)
At night the body of clouds advancing higher up the sky smothers the whole quiet
gulf below with an impenetrable darkness, in which the sound of the falling showers
can be heard beginning and ceasing abruptly – now here, now there. Indeed, these
cloudy nights are proverbial with the seamen along the whole west coast of a great
continent. Sky, land and sea disappear together out of the world when the Placido – as
the saying is – goes to sleep under its black poncho. The few stars left below the
seaward frown of the vault shine feebly as into the mouth of a black cavern. In its
vastness your ship floats unseen under your feet, her sails flutter invisible above your
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head. The eye of God himself – they add with grim profanity – could not find out
what work a man’s hand is doing in there; and you would be free to call the devil to
your aid with impunity if even his malice were not defeated by such a blind darkness.
(Conrad 8)
These spatial descriptions are a part of the opening salvo of exposition that
characterises Nostromo as a whole. Roughly the first quarter of the novel is devoted to the
description of the landscape, the history and the characters of Costaguana. The middle part of
the novel offers further elaboration on the circumstances that lead to the endgame, while it is
only in the last third of the novel that the narrative heats up, the flashbacks and long stretches
of exposition end and the narrative becomes concerned with the ‘here and now’ of the story
instead of how it ended up there.
On crossing the imaginary line drawn from Punta Mala to Azuera the ships from
Europe bound to Sulaco lose at once the strong breezes of the ocean. They become
prey of capricious airs that play with them for thirty hours at a stretch sometimes.
Before them the head of the calm gulf is filled on most days of the year by a great
body of motionless and opaque clouds. On the rare clear mornings another shadow is
cast upon the sweep of the gulf. The dawn breaks high behind the towering and
serrated wall of the Cordillera, a clear-cut vision of dark peaks rearing their steep
slopes on a lofty pedestal of forests rising from the very edge of the shore. Amongst
them the white head of the Higuerota rises majestically upon the blue. Bare clusters of
enormous rocks sprinkle with tiny black dots the smooth dome of snow. (Conrad 7)
It is in this passage and the ones above that the two most important spatial
characteristics of Sulaco are established: the treacherous, closed off Golfo Placido and the
imposing mountains that dominate the view from it play big parts in the make-up of the story.
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This essay will look at the importance of the gulf and the mountain range as landscape in the
novel.
In order to apply a landscape approach to Nostromo, a definition of landscape is
needed. In her article “The cultural landscape of interplanetary space” Alice Gorman cites a
definition of landscape from “The Operational Guidelines” for the “Implementation of the
World Heritage Convention” (1998: 36) which defines cultural landscapes as “the combined
works of nature and man [sic]”:
They are illustrative of the evolution of human society and settlement over time, under
the influence of the physical constraints and/or opportunities presented by their
cultural environment and of successive, social, economic and cultural forces, both
internal and external.
Within this broad concept three principal categories of cultural landscape are
recognized:
1. The designed or intentionally created landscape, such as a garden or parkland.
2. The organically evolved landscape, resulting from human actions within the
natural environment, both past and ongoing.
3. The associative cultural landscape, with religious, artistic or cultural associations
rather than evidence of material culture alone. (Gorman 2005)
What makes this definition special is the fact that it does not rely on the dichotomy of
land touched and untouched by humanity when defining the importance of landscape or, as
Gorman puts it, ‘[t]he cultural landscape approach moves away from the polarization between
wilderness and civilized and allows values to be perceived in human interactions with the
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natural environment.’ (88). In other words: space is only relevant as landscape when one
looks at the relationship people have with it.
The categories that are most interesting for our purposes are numbers 2 and 3, and
with especially the interaction between the two. In her article “An Archetypal Analysis of
Conrad’s Nostromo” Claire Rosen field illustrates a way of expressing this relationship
between man and landscape: archetype and myth. She explains how there are two levels on
which the narrative of Sulaco takes place: “Unlike the world of political events, which is
within time, there is another world in Nostromo, a traditional one where the motions of the
clock have no meaning. The silver – and treasure in general – dominates this second story.”
(513). The power of the landscape associated with the silver mine can be situated on
Rosenfield’s second level, the world out of time. This level can be linked to the third category
of landscape cited by Gorman: the cultural associations of the mountains are still present, but
are in danger of changing because of the influence of the successful exploitation of the mine.
This results in the landscape organically evolving under the natural influence of human
endeavour, as mentioned in the second category.
It is a similar ‘world out of time’ to Rosenfield’s that Edward W. Said ascribes a lot of
power to in the article “Invention, Memory and Place”, where he explains it using the conflict
over the city of Jerusalem as example:
Th[e] conflict is intensified by Jerusalem’s mythological – as opposed to actual
geographical – location, in which landscape, buildings, streets and the like are overlain
and, I would say, even covered entirely with symbolic associations totally obscuring
the existential reality of what as a city and real place Jerusalem is . . . The same can be
said of Palestine, whose landscape functions in the memories of Jews, Muslims and
Christians entirely differently. One of the strangest things for me to grasp is the
powerful hold the locale must have had on European crusaders despite their enormous
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distance. Scenes of the crucifixion and nativity, for instance, appear in European
Renaissance paintings as taking place in a sort of denatured Palestine, since none of
the artists had ever seen the place. An idealized landscape gradually took shape that
sustained the European imagination for hundreds of years. That Bernard of Clairvaux
standing in a church in Vezelay, in the heart of the Burgundy, could announce a
crusade to reclaim Palestine and the holy places from the Muslims never fails to
astound me, and that after hundreds of years of living in Europe Zionist Jews could
still feel that Palestine had stood still in time and was theirs, again despite millennia of
history and the presence of actual inhabitants. This too is also an indication of how
geography can be manipulated, invented, characterized quite apart from a site’s merely
physical reality. (180)
When applying this approach to the San Tomé mountains, Rosenfield speaks of a
“stream of silver” that runs down the mountain and has two possible implications depending
upon what one’s perspective of it is (515). Charles Gould has main motivation for the
exploitation of the mine, or at least the one he will admit to, is based upon his imagination of
Sulaco, its mountains and the mine and the values he associates with those. According to
Rosenfield, he is working to create his own Eden in a place that might have already been like
paradise to begin with. His wife is aware of this.
“Ah, if we had left it alone, Charles!”
“No,” Charles Gould said moodily; “it was impossible to leave it alone.”
“Perhaps it was impossible,” Mrs. Gould admitted slowly. Her lips quivered a
little, but she smiled with an air of dainty bravado. “We have disturbed a good many
snakes in that paradise, Charley, haven’t we?
“Yes; I remember,” said Charles Gould, “it was Don Pépé who called the gorge the
Paradise of snakes. No doubt we have disturbed a great many. But remember, my dear,
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that is not now as it was when you made that sketch.” He waved his hand towards the
small water-colour hanging alone upon the great bare wall. “It is no longer a Paradise
of snakes. We have brought mankind into it, and we cannot turn our backs upon them
to go and begin a new life elsewhere.” (165)
Working from these convictions, he is the primary force in Sulaco without whom there
would be no story. He chooses to look at Sulaco as a land that can be made into a new Eden,
and not one that he is destroying in his attempts. In Rosenfield’s terms, he aims to change the
world out of time, the physical and associative reality of Costaguana. In this context,
Decoud’s view of Gould is, expressed in a private conversation with Gould’s wife Emilia, is a
telling one:
“What do you know?” she asked in a feeble voice.
“Nothing,” answered Decoud firmly. “But, then, don’t you see, he’s an Englishman?”
“Well, what of that?’ asked Mrs. Gould.
“Simply that he cannot act or exist without idealising 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. (170)
Putting this in Said’s terms, it can be said that Gould is ‘re-inventing’ Costaguana,
giving it new associations that relate to civilization and the purging of snakes that do not
represent purity, but corruption. In that way he is shaping it after his imagination of what it
should be. Thinking like this, Gould justifies his actions through the denial or subversion of
its religious associations, on the level of the associative cultural landscape. He argues that the
landscape that is changing by his hand is organically evolving in a direction that suit his moral
outlook.
In a later conversation with Mrs. Gould, Decoud first airs his opinion that Sulaco
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would be better off separated from the rest of the country. He presents it as a suggestion based
on clear facts, but ironically his opinion can be put in line with a similar ambition linked to a
biblical archetype: if Costaguana will not support the creation of this Eden, why not create it
yourself? By attempting to turn Sulaco in their own Eden, Gould and Decoud are agents in the
invention of a new state and a new imagination of what the territory that makes up Sulaco can
be.
After Decoud has pleaded his case for the separation, his next motive is to leave
Costaguana until the revolutionary violence has blown over, since his incendiary writings in
the national newspaper have made him a target for the insurrectionists. He decides to flee on
the lighter full of silver that is brought out of the country by Nostromo. In anticipation of the
revolutionary violence, Gould has decided to send away a large load of the precious metal to
appease his financier in San Francisco for the time being while also keeping it from falling
into the hands of the insurrectionists. In order to reach the steamers that will bring the silver to
North America, they have to paddle the lighter over the dark and treacherous Golfo Placido. It
is there that they enter the other archetypal and thematic centre of Sulaco and also that of the
novel.
In the passages concerning the Golfo Placido quoted above, the stage was set for what
can be considered the thematic centrepiece of the novel. A.M. De Lange cites an analysis by
Royal Roussel in his essay “Transcribing/Inscribing Mythical Space in Conrad’s Nostromo”,
“[W]hat really lies at the centre of the geography of Sulaco, says Roussel, is not Higuerota
[the highest mountain seen from the Gulf], but “the darkness of the Golfo Placido”, a space
which “confounds the objects of everyday life into one homogeneous obscurity” (129). The
implication of this is that the characters who seek the centre of Sulaco on the land, as do
important ones like Gould and Decoud, are wrong in this assumption. This is what Decoud
finds out in his nocturnal adventure on the lighter.
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The Capataz, extending his hand, put out the candle suddenly. It was to Decoud as if
his companion had destroyed, in a single touch, the world of affairs, of loves, of
revolution, where his complacent superiority analysed fearlessly all motives and
passions, including his own. He gasped a little. Decoud was affected by the novelty
of his position. Intellectually self-confident, he suffered from being deprived of the
only weapon he could use with effect. No intelligence could penetrate the darkness of
the Placid Gulf. (Conrad 217-218)
In this passage, Decoud finds out that the focus on creating acting on any impulse,
including the striving after a dream situation either from idealism or pragmatism, is futile.
This realization pervades the entire novel, as the heroes and narrators “experience the
existential condition of isolation . . . [which] results from the epistemological frustration and
fragmentation[.]” (De Lange 128).
Concluding, a case can be made that the lasting power of Nostromo is created by a
‘real’ human sense of space and landscape. Like landscape in real life, that of Sulaco holds
many different meanings to different people. This is accomplished by the use of archetypal
characteristics in the description of the various locales, and having various characters acting
from different viewpoints on those archetypes. A second effective tool for the creation of this
spatial awareness is the leisurely set up of the places and their general archetypal associations
before paying that off with the following actions that take place there. This process shows a
strong resemblance to what Said calls ‘mythical geography’, of which the characteristics are
that people act upon their imagination of a place rather than upon the actual knowledge they
may have of it. The guidelines that Gorman quotes in her essay to underline the importance of
an awareness of the spacescape and its imperialist implications can be used to explain and
contextualize the imperialist thinking that characterizes important characters in Nostromo.
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3: Lev Manovich’ Database Theory
In his book, The Language of New Media, Lev Manovich offers a view of what the
emergence of new media means in the context of the whole of media history. He links the
new media, like websites and video games, made possible by the introduction of the (home)
computer, to the various media that were already created throughout human history. The more
traditional media he mentions are such ones as the various media that can be found in books
such as encyclopaedias and the various forms of literature. The key concept he uses to link the
new and more traditional media is database.
In computer science, database, is defined as a structured collection of data. The data
stored in a database is organized for fast search and retrieval by a computer and
therefore, it is anything but a simple collection of items. Different types of databases –
hierarchical, network, relational, and object-oriented – use different models to
organize data. (Manovich 218)
Following art historian Ervin Panofsky’s analysis of linear perspective as a “symbolic
form” of the modern age, we may even call database a new symbolic form of the
computer age (or, as philosopher Jean-François Lyotard called it in his famous 1979
book The Postmodern Condition, “computerized society”), a new way to structure our
experience of ourselves and of the world. Indeed, after the death of God (Nietzsche),
the end of grand Narratives of Enlightenment (Lyotard), and the arrival of the Web
(Tim Berners-Lee), the world appears to us as an endless and unstructured collection
of images, texts and other data records, it is only appropriate that we will be moved to
model it as a database. But it is also appropriate that we would want to develop a
poetics, aesthetics, and ethics of this database. (Manovich 220)
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“[P]laying [a] [video] game is a continuous loop between the user (viewing the
outcomes and in putting decisions) and the computer (calculating outcomes and
displaying them back to the user). The user is trying to build a mental model of the
computer model.” . . . This is another example of . . . the projection of the ontology of
a computer onto culture itself. (Manovich 223)
What Manovich is sketching here is the way new media are reshaping the human
experience of reality. Reality is no longer perceived as being of a piece, but as an “endless and
unstructured collection of images, texts and other data records” (220). The experience of
playing a video game, as described above, can be used as a model for the contemporary
experience of reality. One is no longer simply experiencing reality, but probing it, looking for
patterns and probing those. Manovich does apply it to narrative as well.
However, narratives and games are similar in that the user must uncover their
underlying logic, while proceeding through them – their algorithm. Just like the game
player, the reader of a novel gradually constructs the algorithm (here I use the term
metaphorically) that the writer used to create the settings, characters, and the events.
(Manovich 225)
The ‘algorithm’-approach that was ushered in by new media is not completely new.
The reader reconstructs the story world in the same way he or she would the implicit rules of
a video game or the phenomena of everyday life. From this point onwards, Manovich
proceeds to make a bolder statement.
Some media objects explicitly follow a database logic in their structure whereas others
do not; but under the surface, practically all of them are databases. In general, creating
a work in new media can be understood as the construction of an interface to a
database. (Manovich 226)
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The implication of this statement is that database was never anything new, but always
implicit in the human experience of reality. The essential difference between new and
traditional media is not situated on the level of database, but at that of the way we access that
database, the so-called interface. Manovich proceeds to apply this new insight to narrative.
The “user” of a narrative is traversing a database, following links between its records
as established by the database’s creator. . . . A traditional linear narrative is one among
many possible trajectories, that is, a particular choice made within a hypernarrative.
Just as a traditional cultural object can now be seen as a particular case of a new media
object (i.e., a new media object that has only one interface), traditional linear narrative
can be seen as a particular case of hypernarrative. (Manovich 227)
So, instead of revolutionising media by offering a completely different approach, the
emergence of the terms database and interface have simply retrofitted the traditional media.
Narrative and database are not natural enemies, but actually closely linked. “[A] database can
support narrative, but there is nothing in the logic of the medium itself that would foster its
generation” (Manovich 229). Put in terms of the introduction, the references a novel is built
up out of are one thing, but the selection of these references and the way they are turned into a
strong narrative are quite another.
With the term “hypernarrative” Manovich refers to the way new media work, as they
offer various routes through the same database. It is an interesting concept when talking about
space in literature, and especially De Lange’s link to Eagleton’s absent centre. The centre may
be absent, but does indeed offer ‘space’ for different ways of traversing the database.
Elements in the syntagmatic dimension are related in praesentia, while elements in the
pragmatic dimension are related in absentia. For instance, in the case of a written
sentence, the words that comprise it materially exist on a piece of paper, while the
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paradigmatic sets to which these words belong only exist in the reader’s and writer’s
minds. . . . Thus, syntagm is explicit and paradigm is implicit; one is real and the other
is imagined. Literary and cinematic narratives work in the same way. Particular words,
sentences, shots and scenes that make up a narrative have a material existence; other
elements that form the imaginary world of an author or a particular literary or
cinematic style, and that could have appeared instead, exist only virtually. Put
differently, the database of choices from which narrative is constructed (the paradigm)
is implicit; while the actual narrative (the syntagm) is explicit. (Manovich 230-231)
The level of the paradigm is where Conrad’s construction of Nostromo is interesting
for the purposes of this thesis. As we will see, it is on this level, the relationship between what
is said and thus simultaneously unsaid, that Nostromo gains in depth and space for
manoeuvring. Going a long way into linking new and ‘traditional’ media, Manovich in the
end argues that narrative and database are not enemies, and have historically made for
numerous hybrids.
Competing to make meaning out of the world, database and narrative produce endless
hybrids. It is hard to find a pure encyclopedia without any traces of a narrative in it
and vice versa. For instance, until alphabetical organization become popular a few
centuries ago, most encyclopedias were organized thematically, with topics covered in
a particular order (typically, corresponding to the seven liberal arts.) At the same time,
many narratives, such as the novels by Cervantes and Swift, and even Homer’s epic
poems – the founding narratives of the Western tradition – traverse an imaginary
encyclopedia. (Manovich 234)
In contrast to the works the authors mentioned by Manovich, Conrad’s Nostromo
offers a narrative that has more to offer than just one interface to its database. Its implicit
Keip 24
structure, its paradigm, leaves room for the reader’s interpretation among the many other
interpretations of characters and occurrences. Nostromo fits into the tradition of the works of
Homer, Swift and Cervantes in the sense that it is built upon a rich tapestry of mythological
and historical references. In contrast to the aforementioned works, it offers one a chance to
‘write’ those myths while along with the author, narrator and characters while reading it.
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4. Various Paradigms
The analysis by De Lange and Manovich’ theories have given us a theoretical picture
of how the reader’s interaction with the hypernarrative of Nostromo might work. The various
implicit references (‘paradigms’ in Manovich’ terms) and spaces left open (De Lange’s
‘narrative disjunctions’) weave the web of narrative intrigue that the reader has to navigate. In
this chapter, a number of those features are discussed.
4.1 The Political paradigm
Nostromo is rife with references to other historical and political situations. The foundational
associations among these are, once again, found in the first few pages where the character of
Giorgio Viola is used to place the various happenings in historical perspective. Viola is a
veteran of the army of Giuseppe Garibaldi, an Italian nationalist leader in the struggle for
Italy’s unification and independence, who also happened to have a history of fighting in
various conflicts over independence in South America. This makes Garibaldi into an
extremely suitable referent for the happenings in Costaguana. As follower of Garibaldi, a true
‘Garibaldino’, Viola is the physical representation of the morally justified and clean goals of
the Italian unification. It is his moral compass that we are introduced to first.
In my judgement, something of the nature of an authentic politics, and even its very
real possibility, is outlined for us via a powerful personage who is not, strictly
speaking a character at all but who nonetheless looms over the narrative as
decisively as does the silver of the mine. I refer to Garibaldi who, at the very outset
of the novel, is established as the standard against which all others are to be judged.
Indeed, the passages on Garibaldi are placed strategically, only twenty pages into the
novel, after the stage is set but before we know anything of the actors or, for that
matter, the plot. (Steinberger 425)
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Steinberger’s analysis hits the nail on the head concerning the effects of the Garibaldi
myth. What he does not mention, even if he maybe implies it, is the sketchy nature of the
descriptions of Garibaldi’s successes. It is no wonder that the 2007 Penguin books edition of
Nostromo contains a plethora of notes explaining the history of Garibaldi. Even having read
the notes, we take Viola’s assertion of the political rectitude of Garibaldi at face value, we
have to. We could even take into account the fact that Viola is misremembering history or
maybe even deliberately leaving out the less positive details, either to underline his points or
out of plain nostalgia.
Since the history of Garibaldi is implied as being intrinsically good, and Viola is our
only guide to it, it takes the place of the ideal political revolution. In this way, it begets a
mythical status and becomes the referent by which all political happenings in Sulaco are
judged, with Viola as the judge in question. It is implied that as long as the political moves
made by the Sulaco oligarchy have Viola’s approval, they are morally legitimate. As Emilia
Gould tries to please Giorgio, there is always a sense that even though she does it out of pure
goodness, there might be the ulterior motive of trying to appease the ‘gods of the revolution’
through him. Nostromo values Viola’s approval as well, even if it is not hard to come by for
him.
[Nostromo’s sense of individuality] was fostered by . . . the appreciative grunts and
nods of the silent old Viola, to whose exalted sentiments every sort of faithfulness
appealed greatly. (Conrad 326)
Like Nostromo, the Sulaco oligarchs value Viola’s opinion, even if they dread it as
well. Note the way in which Decoud, Viola and Avellanos are aware of the part they are
supposed to play in the following conversation.
Decoud, ensconced in the corner of his seat, observed gloomily Mrs. Gould’s old
Keip 27
revolutionist, then, offhand –
“Well, and what do you think of it all, Garibaldino?”
Old Giorgio, looking at him with some curiosity, said civilly, that the troops had
marched very well. One-eyed Barrios and his officers had done wonder with the
recruits in a short time. . . .
His animation fell; the slight gesture of his hand expressed discouragement; but he
added that he had asked one of the sergeants to show him the new rifle. There was no
such weapon in his fighting days; and if Barrios could not “Yes, yes,” broke in Don José, almost trembling with eagerness. “We are safe. The
good señor Viola is a man of experience. Extremely deadly is it not so? You have
accomplished your mission admirably, my dear Martin.” (Conrad 132)
The general awkwardness of this conversation is telling. It is Decoud’s cynical nature
that prompts him to address Viola as Garibaldino, since he is aware of Viola’s significance
concerning the matter and doubtful of his ability to say something substantial about it. Viola
for his part attempts to answer the question enthusiastically, but fails halfway through. It is
not clear whether Avellanos’ interjection is for fear of criticism on Viola’s part or an attempt
to bring a more positive dynamic into the conversation, but just the fact that it came at a low
point in the conversation is telling enough.
At the end of the novel, Giorgio becomes important again. However, his part is now
reduced to being keeper of the lighthouse, a superficially impressive but basically hollow
position since his daughter Linda does all the work. It is implied that Giorgio, now about
seventy years old, has become more of a symbolic placeholder than anything else. His
perceptive abilities appear to be receding as well. When Nostromo reluctantly asks him for
Linda’s hand, he cannot bring himself to mention her by name, but Giorgio doesn’t sense his
trepidation. Giorgio feels that his youngest daughter is in danger of being abducted by
Keip 28
Ramirez, even though the new Capataz seems to emotionally fragile and confused to make
such a bold move. He never seems to be the most incisive of listeners, but the fact that the
love triangle between his two daughters and Nostromo eludes him is very telling. His old age
has amplified his weakness and taken away most of his strengths. Viola as a moral compass,
as a compass for anything really, turns out to be broken. Ironically, the only aspect remaining
of his participation in the glorious past is his gunmanship, which he uses to the wrong ends. It
is ironic that the Golfo Placido, now lit by the lighthouse Viola nominally runs, is still too
dark for him. The representative of the glorious past has become a doddering old man who
can’t see well. This realization reflects back on the way he was seen all through the novel:
wasn’t he always more the out of touch old man than the stern hero of the unification?
4.2 The structural paradigm
Delayed decoding, a “term originally coined by Ian Watt to refer to a characteristic Conradian
descript” that “occurs when the author confronts us with an effect while delaying or
withholding an explanation of its cause” had been a weapon in Conrad’s writerly arsenal for
quite some time when he used it for Nostromo (Watts 74).
As described by
Watt, it was a way of expressing the subjective bewilderment of surprise. A good example of
this is the arrow attack on the steamer in Heart of Darkness. What are initially perceived as
harmless sticks bouncing off the ship turn out to be deadly arrows after one of the crew has
been fatally hit. This process of first showing the outward appearance of an occurrence, but
later revealing more details has become extremely refined in Nostromo. In fact, this
refinement has gone so far that Conrad uses it to express intricate emotional or thematical
revelations throughout the novel.
Keip 29
Nostromo woke up from a fourteen hours’ sleep, and arose full length from his lair in
the long grass. He stood knee deep amongst the whispering undulations of the green
blades with the lost air of a man just born into the world. Handsome, robust, and
supple, he threw back his head, flung his arms open, and stretched himself with a slow
twist of the waist and a leisurely growling yawn of white teeth, as natural and free
from evil in the moment of waking as a magnificent and unconscious wild beast. Then,
in the suddenly steadied glance fixed upon from nothing under a forced frown,
appeared a man. (Conrad 323)
Nostromo was some time in regaining his hold on the world. It had slipped from him
completely in the deep slumber of more than twelve hours. It had been like a break in
continuity in the chain of experience; he had to find himself in time and space, to
think of the hour and the place of his return. It was a novelty. (Conrad 324)
What follows is a segue into a flashback to how he came to be the Capataz de
Cargadores, followed by a short summary of his career and reputation in that capacity up to
his journey on the lighter.
But this awakening, in solitude, but for the watchful vulture, amongst the ruins of the
fort, had no such characteristics. His first confused feeling was exactly this – that it
was not in keeping. It was more like the end of things. The necessity of living
concealed somehow, for God knows how long, which assailed him on his return to
consciousness, made everything that had gone before for years appear vain and
foolish, like a flattering dream come suddenly to an end. (Conrad 326)
On pages 324-326 a moment first only seen from the outside is explained in detail. A
short moment on page 323, the change of expression on Nostromo’s face, is explained as
being the result his life flashing before his eyes. One could say that the moment on page 323
Keip 30
is decoded in the following pages. The reader is confused at first, but later gets insight into
that moment of puzzlement. This is a trick used many times through Nostromo. Although it is
not precisely delayed decoding in the sense of Ian Watt, it does qualify to be put under the
same name.
A second example of a variant of Watt’s delayed decoding takes place can be found
when Nostromo finds the dinghy and attempts to reconstruct what happened to Decoud. He
sees a brown stain, of which he only slowly realizes that it must be blood. Back on the Great
Isabel, he finds that Decoud has hidden the silver well, but discarded the shovel in a nondiscrete manner. After he digs up the silver he realizes that four ingots are missing. Nostromo
gathers about what happened and slowly connects the dots. It later turns out that he sat in the
same place as Decoud did when overthinking the situation. The reader finds out about
Decoud’s fate along with Nostromo, thereby stressing the tragedy of it while also further
forging the thematic link between the two characters.
4.3 The Religious Paradigm
The religious paradigm, not to be confused with the biblical discussion in chapter 2, is
linked to the Italian contingent of Sulaco. At the start of the novel, Teresa and Giorgio are the
keepers of what in the story world counts as the ‘true religion’. The religious ‘centre’ of the
novel is formed by Giorgio Viola’s old bible, which we are told he reads daily with ever
greater difficulty. If his past as a soldier of Garibaldi is represents his political ideals, the bible
is his guideline in the affairs of the soul. The biblical strand of Nostromo lies dormant for a
large part of the story, but comes up quickly and stingingly where the character Nostromo is
concerned. He is surprised and somehow reluctant to fetch a priest for Teresa when she
requests it of him before her death. On the one hand, it is logical for her to want to have her
Keip 31
last rites read to her. From that perspective hard to understand why Nostromo has such a hard
time fulfilling her request. The fact that he is about to sail out on the lighter filled with silver
is no excuse; he could have just sent somebody else to do it.
On the other hand, it is probable that she has an ulterior motive in sending Nostromo
for the task. If we remember the conversation, Teresa is begging him to refuse the mission
and stop being used as a disposable tool by the rich foreigners. This brings Nostromo in the
extremely unease position of having to argue with his surrogate mother on her deathbed. She
is telling him that he should change the one thing his life is built upon as he is just about to
make the ultimate sacrifice to the principle that has guided his life up to that point. It stands to
reason to assume that the fact that she asks him of all people to get a priest, when anyone else
in the building is up to the task, is related to that same objective. Judging by Nostromo’s
reaction the request does indeed make him just as uneasy as Teresa’s line of reasoning. It is
reasonable to assume that the reference to the priest, and thus to religion, strikes a similar
chord to Teresa’s plea for him to change his loyalties. Reminding him of religion, and thus his
roots, apparently is akin to telling him to stop working for the Gould oligarchy. That she is
aware of this effect becomes clear after he has refused her request: “She felt a despairing
indignation. The supreme test had failed.” (Conrad 202).
The link between her two requests of Nostromo only becomes clear after Teresa has
died. When Dr Monygham tells Nostromo of her death, his reaction is a surprising one, even
if it is only noticeable to narrator and reader.
“Teresa is dead,” remarked the doctor, absently, while his mind followed a new line
of thought suggested by what might have been called Nostromo’s return to life. “She
died, the poor woman.”
“Without a priest?” the Capataz asked anxiously.
“What a question! Who could have got a priest for her last night?”
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“May God have her soul!” ejaculated Nostromo, with a gloomy and helpless fervour
which had not time to surprise Dr. Monygham . . . (Conrad 340)
The involuntariness and intensity of his reaction to the news is characteristic for how
deep Teresa has hit him. As a result, Nostromo guilt over not fetching her a priest becomes
linked to his objective of vengeance towards his former employers and therefore his decision
to keep the silver for himself. His feelings of guilt surrounding Teresa spill over into his love
life when he finds that he can’t stand to be around Linda, Teresa’s doppelgänger, let alone
marry her. When he secretly chooses to make Giselle the woman in his life, it is a contributing
factor in his unfortunate death. Had he not been burdened with his feelings of guilt over
Teresa, he would have not ended up keeping secrets about the silver and his feelings for
Giselle. His unfortunate death at the hands of Viola would probably not have happened in that
scenario. The final words spoken, or better said screamed in the whole novel by Linda Viola
are as much those of Teresa, who loved him as a son and saw him for what he really was, as
they are hers. The introduction of the “burden of sacrilegious guilt” is one of the changes to
his character that lead to his untimely death.
4.4 The Stylistic Paradigm
Much has been written about the structure of Nostromo. Part First, the Silver of the Mine is
said to provide the exposition on which the remainder of the novel rests. However, there is a
shift in style that takes place between Part Second, The Isabels and Part the Third, The
Lighthouse that is worth discussing. It is in the third part of the novel that the characters start
to represent more than just their function in the plot, which is expressed in dialogue that
becomes more natural and less expository. Even the expository tour of Costaguana, hosted by
the now extremely familiar Captain Mitchell, contains more character building, and is written
Keip 33
in a looser style than one could find earlier in the novel.
This change of style is a deliberate one, and not just a result of the author changing
style unconsciously or for the sake of it. Between Part Second and Part Third, the narrative
technique switches from telling to showing. It is a genuine shock to see the characters, which
were already built up so meticulously, cut loose in affecting and even humorous ways. The
novel makes a new start, as if to signify that the real game is now actually afoot. One of the
main proponents of this style is the entrance of Sotillo as a fully-fledged character. In the
previous part a taste was given of his antics, but as he sets up camp in Sulaco he is a welcome
addition, bringing in a touch of madness, aggression and humour to proceedings. It must be
noted that this invigoration of the narrative falls coincides with the arrival of an enemy force
in Sulaco. The static situation in Sulaco ends at the same time as a more lively form of
narrative begins.
The meeting between Sotillo and Mitchell takes becomes a comedy of slapstickproportion, in which the idiocy and deficiencies, some might even say their lovability, of both
is demonstrated.
“I’ve been knocked down three times between this and the wharf,” [Mitchell] gasped
out at last. “Somebody shall be made to pay for this.” He had certainly stumbled more
than once, and had been dragged along for some distance before he could regain his
stride. With his recovered breath his indignation seemed to madden him. He jumped
up, crimson, all his white hair bristling, his eyes glaring vengefully, and shook
violently the flaps of his ruined waistcoat before the disconcerted Sotillo. “Look!
Those uniformed thieves of yours downstairs have robbed me of my watch.”
The old sailor’s aspect was very threatening. Sotillo saw himself cut off from the table
on which his sabre and revolver were lying.
“I demand restitution and apologies,” Mitchell thundered at him, quite beside himself.
Keip 34
“From you! Yes, from you!
For the space of a second or so the colonel stood with a perfectly stony expression of
face, then, as Captain Mitchell flung out an arm towards the table as if to snatch up
the revolver, Sotillo, with a yell of alarm, bounded to the door and was gone in a flash,
slamming it after him. Surprise calmed Captain Mitchell’s fury. Behind the closet
door Sotillo shouted on the landing, and there was a great tumult of feet on the
wooden staircase.
“Disarm him! Bind him!” the colonel could be heard vociferating. (Conrad 261)
The passage above is characteristic of the shift in style. The narrator does not
explicitly tell us about the clueless pomposity of Captain Mitchell or the complete military
ineptitude of Sotillo, but lets description and dialogue do the work. It seems that the author
deemed it was finally time to have the characters ‘decoded’ after half the novel was spent to
building them up, by having them bounce off each other. While labelling this structural
process as “delayed decoding”, it does deserve a mention.
4.5 The performance paradigm
Nostromo and Decoud are two sides of the same coin in their paths through the novel.
The former’s life is a performance, almost from the start. In a flashback, it is explained how
he ended up as the Capataz de Cargadores of Sulaco. It was a the big show that was made of
his desertion of the ship he was serving on that set him on the course of becoming a living
legend.
Nostromo, in close hiding in a back room of a pulpería for the three days before the
ship sailed, heard of these lamentations, threats and curses apparently unmoved. But
Keip 35
he heard of them with satisfaction. This was as it should be. He was a valuable man.
What better recognition could he expect? (Conrad 325)
The story of Nostromo and how he came into his position is sketched as being more
the result of luck than of wisdom, even if his capabilities are never questioned. His vanity is
said to be the root of him becoming an icon. “Each man must have some temperamental sense
by which to discover himself. With Nostromo it was vanity of an artless sort. Without it he
would have been nothing” (Conrad 325). It is this vanity that gives him an outward
appearance of incorruptibility, but it means that he must keep up the performance of
“Nostromo” throughout, hiding his real personality from others, but also from himself. A key
term in the analysis of both Nostromo and Decoud is ‘performance’. Both characters need to
express themselves explicitly to do what they want to do. Their consciousness of what their
performance means differs, however.
Nostromo’s performance comes naturally to him, led by his vanity. The celebration of
the opening of the railway becomes the stage for the Nostromo show, where his relationship
to everyone in Sulaco is played out in broad strokes in front of an enormous crowd. It is an
example of Nostromo’s myth writ large. A man publically begs to be allowed to become part
of the Cargadores. A second public display is an apparent lover’s quarrel between Nostromo
and a local beauty. Both are the kind of performance that give a man a name that is hard to
shake off or deny, and Nostromo knows how to play them out to his full advantage.
“Juan,” she hissed, “I could stab thee to the heart!”
The dreaded Capataz de Cargadores, magnificent and carelessly public in his amours,
flung his arm round her neck and kissed her spluttering lips. A murmur went round
“A knife!” he demanded at large, holding her firmly by the shoulder.
Twenty blades flashed out together in the circle. A young man in holiday attire,
bounding in, thrust one in Nostromo’s hand and bounded back into the ranks, very
Keip 36
proud of him. Nostromo had not even looked at him.
“Stand on my foot,” he commanded the girl, who, suddenly subdued, rose lightly, and
when he had her up, encircling her waist, her face near to his, he pressed the knife into
her little hand.
“No, Morenita! You shall not put me to shame,” he said. “You shall have your present;
and so that everyone shall know who is your lover to-day, you may cut all the silver
buttons off my coat.” (Conrad 104)
This passage brings, next to the power of public performance, to light two
characteristics of Nostromo’s public performance that contribute to his image. The first is his
relationship with the ladies in his life. Although he is romantically linked to many beautiful
women, facts of his love life remain thin on the ground. As it is, they are much better off in a
sphere of rumour. The same principle pertains to his money. Publically, Nostromo shows
himself to be permanently poor. Even if he lays hand on some riches, he cannot help but lose
them to the ladies or to gambling. His ‘sacrifice’ of the silver buttons is part of that dynamic.
It is a conscious process on his part, as Decoud explains to his sister about what Nostromo did
when he was approached by an old woman in search of her son.
The Capataz had questioned her, and after hearing her broken and groaning tale had
advised her to go and look amongst the wounded in the patio of the Casa Gould. He
also gave her a quarter dollar, he mentioned carelessly.
““Why did you do that?’ I asked. ‘Do you know her?’
“’No, señor. I don’t suppose I have ever seen her before. How should I? . . .
But, old or young, they like money, and will speak well of the man who gives it to
them.’ (Conrad 195)
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It is later revealed that the quarter dollar Nostromo gave away was his last money. He
sees it as an investment, however, all part of the performance that will make him his fortune
in the end.
A returning phrase in the novel is the one it ends on, “[T]he genius of the Capataz de
Cargadores dominated the dark gulf containing his conquests of treasure and love” (Conrad
447). The repeated mentioning of Nostromo’s two conquests holds a degree of irony
throughout the novel. Even though a man of Nostromo’s stature would be expected to have
more than enough of both treasures, the knowledge of those never materializes publicly. The
paradox between Nostromo’s public image and the accompanying dogma’s and what is
actually known is what his image so powerful. This paradox ultimately becomes ironic
because once his conquests of treasure and love have become real in the form of the silver and
Giselle Viola, they lead to his death. While he dies rich of both silver and love, even though
he clearly does not get to enjoy either all that much, this never becomes public knowledge.
The paradox, and thus his public image, remains intact. His performance of ‘Nostromo’ turns
out to be one for the ages.
Martin Decoud is Nostromo’s double in a number of ways. The main difference
between both is in their earnestness and in their grasp of the bigger political picture of Sulaco.
“The Incorruptible Capataz de Cargadores is the man for that work; and I, the man
with a passion, but without a mission, I go with him in return – to play my part in the
farce to the end, and, if successful, to receive my reward, which no one but Antonia
can give me. (Conrad 194)
The quote above contains some interesting aspects of Decoud as a character. It is
interesting when he calls himself a man with a passion, but without a mission in contrast to
Nostromo. This implies that he sees the Capataz as somewhat of his opposite: a man with a
mission, but without a passion. Nostromo’s lack of passion can be aligned with his perceived
Keip 38
disinterestedness, while his daily life consists upon mission after mission. On the lighter we
find one man who is on a mission but for the first time thinks that he might be lacking in
ideals, and Decoud who, while idealistic, never found a practical expression for this until
recently. His joining of the lighter is an attempt to follow up the words he wrote in the
Porvenir and the things he said to the powerful Sulacans and Antonia Avellanos with actions.
Decoud is established quickly as a man of big speeches and big words. He aims to live
up to his position as a studied nobleman and his words reflect that. Experiencing the reality of
Costaguana from up close is very different than seeing it up close, however.
Martin Decoud was very angry with himself. All he saw and heard going on around
him exasperated the preconceived views of his European civilisation. To contemplate
revolutions from the distance of the Parisian Boulevards was quite another matter.
Here on the spot it was impossible to dismiss their tragic comedy with the expression,
“Quelle farce!” (Conrad 138)
Decoud’s rhetoric does not change because of this realisation, even though he tends to
hedge his words or make a mockery of them later on. He seems to be aware that every word
and act with regards to the politics of Sulaco is relative. His repeated use of the word “farce”
begets an ironic change of meaning. While back in Paris the farcical aspect of Costaguanan
politics has a humorous connotation, the practical reality of participating in such a farce has
soul-destroying results. Still, Decoud continues to spout rhetoric that he only partly believes
in to win the idealistic Antonia.
Rosenfield analyses the relationship between the Nostromo and Decoud in archetypal
terms:
Just as Nostromo is two stories – a historical one and a traditional one – so it possesses
two heroes who together make a composite hero of the novel. The traditional hero is
Keip 39
Nostromo, the Genoese sailor, whose early life is a parody of the characteristics which
Otto Rank and, after him, Lord Raglan, assign to the hero myth. (Rosenfield 519)
Again and again there is evidence that a reputation for supernatural exploits has
gathered around the name of this Italian sailor, just as popular report endowed the
heroes of every age with miraculous deeds. (Rosenfield 520)
It is in the archetypal dynamics between Decoud and Nostromo that a further
paradigm can be found, the heroic one. Conrad does not make to interpret the roles Decoud
and Nostromo are playing in the novel, and according to Rosenfield deliberately keeps the
relationship factitious.
The main difference between the two characters is in awareness of the meaning of the
occurrences surrounding them. Decoud’s heroic performance as the purveyor of rhetoric has
an ironic undertone right from the start. Nostromo’s public displays are just as much a
performance, but he does them in all earnestness and in clear conviction of his ultimate goal.
When they are out on the lighter together, Decoud turns inward into a position of uncertainty,
while Nostromo remains in the here and now. On the Golfo Placido the ontological
uncertainty that pervades the novel has reached reaches fruition in the mind of Decoud,
something that only happens to Nostromo later in the novel.
When [Nostromo’s] voice ceased, the enormous stillness, without light or sound,
seemed to affect Decoud’s senses like a powerful drug. He didn’t even know at times
whether he were asleep or awake. Like a man lost in slumber, he heard nothing, he
saw nothing. The change from the agitation, the passions and the dangers, from the
sights and sounds of the shore, was so complete that it would have resembled
death had it not been for the survival of his thoughts. In his foretaste of eternal
Keip 40
peace they floated vivid and light, like unearthly clear dreams that may haunt the souls
freed by death from the misty atmosphere of regrets and hopes. (Conrad 207)
One could argue that the mention of a “foretaste of eternal peace” is a portent of his
death at his own hands, especially when the place where these experiences reach him is taken
into account. The darkness of the Golfo Placido is the centre of the ontological uncertainty, as
proposed by De Lange, and it is the same uncertainty, coming from lonely internal
ruminations, that are the prelude to his suicide less than two weeks later.
Both [Decoud’s] intelligence and his passion were swallowed up easily in this great
unbroken solitude of waiting without faith. Sleeplessness had robbed his will of all
energy, for he had not slept seven hours in the seven days. His sadness was the
sadness of a sceptical mind. He beheld the universe as a succession of
incomprehensible images. (Conrad 394)
Nostromo returns from his adventures on the Great Isabel as a changed man. He has
become more conscious of the processes going on around and the troublesome duplicity of his
position in those processes. He becomes aware of the things Teresa tried to warn him about on
his deathbed. The ontological uncertainty that was already festering inside Decoud takes root
in Nostromo as well, albeit in his own particular form. The fact that Nostromo undergoes a
similar moment of desperation and incomprehension to Decoud while on the Great Isabel is
symbolic of this similarity.
Keip 41
Conclusion
My thesis statement claims that Nostromo holds its own among the hypernarratives
which are assumed to be the exclusive product of the age of new media. In The Language of
New Media, Manovich asserts that “a traditional linear narrative is . . . a particular choice
made within a hypernarrative” (227), thereby characterizing traditional media, like literature,
as being capable of navigating through the database it is made up of in only one way. In
contrast, De Lange’s analysis of Nostromo led to the conclusion that there is a depth to
Nostromo that allows every reader to ‘co-author’ the novel every time he or she reads it.
Funnily enough, Manovich’ analysis offers terms that help define the reader’s ‘writing
process’ that described by De Lange. The paradigms, tapestries of references both explicit and
implicit are presented to be solved by the reader. These are one way of offering him or the
change to participate in the construction of his or her unique interpretation. Where a
mythology or tradition is implied, these implications take the shape that the reader gives them.
Nostromo, A Tale of the Seaboard exemplifies how that process can make for a novel that
gives back what one puts into it.
Keip 42
Works Cited
Conrad, Joseph. Nostromo, A Tale of the Seaboard. 1904. London: Penguin Classics, 2007.
Print.
De Lange, A.M. “Transcribing/Inscribing Mythical Space in Joseph Conrad’s Nostromo.”
Journeys, Myths and the Age of Travel: Joseph Conrad’s Era. Karlskrona, Department
of Humanities, University of Karlskrona Ronneby, 1998. 127-143. Print.
Gorman, Alice. “The Cultural landscape of interplanetary space.” Journal of Social
Archaeology 5.85 (2005): 85-107. Print.
Manovich, Lev. The Language of New Media. London: The MIT Press, 2001. Print.
Rosenfield, Claire. “An Archetypal Analysis of Conrad’s Nostromo.” Texas Studies in
Literature and Language 3.4 (1962): 510-534. Print.
Said, Edward W. “Invention, Memory and Place.” Critical Inquiry 26.2 (2000): 175-192.
Print.
Steinberger, Peter J. “Nostromo’s Fall: Conrad on Political Action.” Polity 15.3 (1983):
416-428. Print.
Watts, Cedric. Joseph Conrad – Nostromo. London: Penguin Books, 1990. Print.