unduly　discursive。　　I　have　never　been　very　well　acquainted　with
  the　art　of　conversationthat　art　which；　I　understand；　is
  supposed　to　be　lost　now。　　My　young　days；　the　days　when　one's
  habits　and　character　are　formed；　have　been　rather　familiar　with
  long　silences。　　Such　voices　as　broke　into　them　were　anything　but
  conversational。　　No。　　I　haven't　got　the　habit。　　Yet　this
  discursiveness　is　not　so　irrelevant　to　the　handful　of　pages　which
  follow。　　They；　too；　have　been　charged　with　discursiveness；　with
  disregard　of　chronological　order　（which　is　in　itself　a　crime）；
  with　unconventionality　of　form　（which　is　an　impropriety）。　　I　was
  told　severely　that　the　public　would　view　with　displeasure　the
  informal　character　of　my　recollections。　　〃Alas！〃　I　protested
  mildly。　　〃Could　I　begin　with　the　sacramental　words；　'I　was　born
  on　such　a　date　in　such　a　place'？　　The　remoteness　of　the　locality
  would　have　robbed　the　statement　of　all　interest。　　I　haven't　lived
  through　wonderful　adventures　to　be　related　seriatim。　　I　haven't
  known　distinguished　men　on　whom　I　could　pass　fatuous　remarks。　　I
  haven't　been　mixed　up　with　great　or　scandalous　affairs。　　This　is
  but　a　bit　of　psychological　document；　and　even　so；　I　haven't
  written　it　with　a　view　to　put　forward　any　conclusion　of　my　own。〃
  But　my　objector　was　not　placated。　　These　were　good　reasons　for
  not　writing　at　allnot　a　defence　of　what　stood　written　already；
  he　said。
  I　admit　that　almost　anything；　anything　in　the　world；　would　serve
  as　a　good　reason　for　not　writing　at　all。　　But　since　I　have
  written　them；　all　I　want　to　say　in　their　defence　is　that　these
  memories　put　down　without　any　regard　for　established　conventions
  have　not　been　thrown　off　without　system　and　purpose。　　They　have
  their　hope　and　their　aim。　　The　hope　that　from　the　reading　of
  these　pages　there　may　emerge　at　last　the　vision　of　a　personality；
  the　man　behind　the　books　so　fundamentally　dissimilar　as；　for
  instance；　〃Almayer's　Folly〃　and　〃The　Secret　Agent〃and　yet　a
  coherent；　justifiable　personality　both　in　its　origin　and　in　its
  action。　　This　is　the　hope。　　The　immediate　aim；　closely　associated
  with　the　hope；　is　to　give　the　record　of　personal　memories　by
  presenting　faithfully　the　feelings　and　sensations　connected　with
  the　writing　of　my　first　book　and　with　my　first　contact　with　the
  sea。
  In　the　purposely　mingled　resonance　of　this　double　strain　a　friend
  here　and　there　will　perhaps　detect　a　subtle　accord。
  J。C。K。
  Chapter　I。
  Books　may　be　written　in　all　sorts　of　places。　　Verbal　inspiration
  may　enter　the　berth　of　a　mariner　on　board　a　ship　frozen　fast　in　a
  river　in　the　middle　of　a　town；　and　since　saints　are　supposed　to
  look　benignantly　on　humble　believers；　I　indulge　in　the　pleasant
  fancy　that　the　shade　of　old　Flaubertwho　imagined　himself　to　be
  （amongst　other　things）　a　descendant　of　Vikingsmight　have
  hovered　with　amused　interest　over　the　decks　of　a　2000…ton　steamer
  called　the　〃Adowa；〃　on　board　of　which；　gripped　by　the　inclement
  winter　alongside　a　quay　in　Rouen；　the　tenth　chapter　of　〃Almayer's
  Folly〃　was　begun。　　With　interest；　I　say；　for　was　not　the　kind
  Norman　giant　with　enormous　moustaches　and　a　thundering　voice　the
  last　of　the　Romantics？　　Was　he　not；　in　his　unworldly；　almost
  ascetic；　devotion　to　his　art　a　sort　of　literary；　saint…like
  hermit？
  〃'It　has　set　at　last；'　said　Nina　to　her　mother；　pointing　to　the
  hills　behind　which　the　sun　had　sunk。〃。　。　。These　words　of
  Almayer's　romantic　daughter　I　remember　tracing　on　the　grey　paper
  of　a　pad　which　rested　on　the　blanket　of　my　bed…place。　　They
  referred　to　a　sunset　in　Malayan　Isles　and　shaped　themselves　in　my
  mind；　in　a　hallucinated　vision　of　forests　and　rivers　and　seas；
  far　removed　from　a　commercial　and　yet　romantic　town　of　the
  northern　hemisphere。　　But　at　that　moment　the　mood　of　visions　and
  words　was　cut　short　by　the　third　officer；　a　cheerful　and　casual
  youth；　coming　in　with　a　bang　of　the　door　and　the　exclamation：
  〃You've　made　it　jolly　warm　in　here。〃
  It　was　warm。　　I　had　turned　on　the　steam…heater　after　placing　a
  tin　under　the　leaky　water…cockfor　perhaps　you　do　not　know　that
  water　will　leak　where　steam　will　not。　　I　am　not　aware　of　what　my
  young　friend　had　been　doing　on　deck　all　that　morning；　but　the
  hands　he　rubbed　together　vigorously　were　very　red　and　imparted　to
  me　a　chilly　feeling　by　their　mere　aspect。　　He　has　remained　the
  only　banjoist　of　my　acquaintance；　and　being　also　a　younger　son　of
  a　retired　colonel；　the　poem　of　Mr。　Kipling；　by　a　strange
  aberration　of　associated　ideas；　always　seems　to　me　to　have　been
  written　with　an　exclusive　view　to　his　person。　　When　he　did　not
  play　the　banjo　he　loved　to　sit　and　look　at　it。　　He　proceeded　to
  this　sentimental　inspection　and　after　meditating　a　while　over　the
  strings　under　my　silent　scrutiny　inquired　airily：
  〃What　are　you　always　scribbling　there；　if　it's　fair　to　ask？〃
  It　was　a　fair　enough　question；　but　I　did　not　answer　him；　and
  simply　turned　the　pad　over　with　a　movement　of　instinctive
  secrecy：　　I　could　not　have　told　him　he　had　put　to　flight　the
  psychology　of　Nina　Almayer；　her　opening　speech　of　the　tenth
  chapter　and　the　words　of　Mrs。　Almayer's　wisdom　which　were　to
  follow　in　the　ominous　oncoming　of　a　tropical　night。　　I　could　not
  have　told　him　that　Nina　had　said：　　〃It　has　set　at　last。〃　　He
  would　have　been　extremely　surprised　and　perhaps　have　dropped　his
  precious　banjo。　Neither　could　I　have　told　him　that　the　sun　of　my
  sea…going　was　setting　too；　even　as　I　wrote　the　words　expressing
  the　impatience　of　passionate　youth　bent　on　its　desire。　　I　did　not
  know　this　myself；　and　it　is　safe　to　say　he　would　not　have　cared；
  though　he　was　an　excellent　young　fellow　and　treated　me　with　more
  deference　than；　in　our　relative　positions；　I　was　strictly
  entitled　to。
  He　lowered　a　tender　gaze　on　his　banjo　and　I　went　on　looking
  through　the　port…hole。　　The　round　opening　framed　in　its　brass　rim
  a　fragment　of　the　quays；　with　a　row　of　casks　ranged　on　the　frozen
  ground　and　the　tail…end　of　a　great　cart。　　A　red…nosed　carter　in　a
  blouse　and　a　woollen　nightcap　leaned　against　the　wheel。　　An　idle；
  strolling　custom…house　guard；　belted　over　his　blue　capote；　had
  the　air　of　being　depressed　by　exposure　to　the　weather　and　the
  monotony　of　official　existence。　　The　background　of　grimy　houses
  found　a　place　in　the　picture　framed　by　my　port…hole；　across　a
  wide　stretch　of　paved　quay　brown　with　frozen　mud。　　The　colouring
  was　sombre；　and　the　most　conspicuous　feature　was　a　little　cafe
  with　curtained　windows　and　a　shabby　front　of　white　woodwork；
  corresponding　with　the　squalor　of　these　poorer　quarters　bordering
  the　river。　　We　had　been　shifted　down　there　from　another　berth　in
  the　neighbourhood　of　the　Opera　House；　where　that　same　port…hole
  gave　me　a　view　of　quite　another　sort　of　cafethe　best　in　the
  town；　I　believe；　and　the　very　one　where　the　worthy　Bovary　and　his
  wife；　the　romantic　daughter　of　old　Pere　Renault；　had　some
  refreshment　after　the　memorable　performance　of　an　opera　which　was
  the　tragic　story　of　Lucia　di　Lammermoor　in　a　setting　of　light
  music。
  I　could　recall　no　more　the　hallucination　of　the　Eastern
  Archipelago　which　I　certainly　hoped　to　see　again。　　The　story　of
  〃Almayer's　Folly〃　got　put　away　under　the　pillow　for　that　day。　　I
  do　not　know　that　I　had　any　occupation　to　keep　me　away　from　it；
  the　truth　of　the　matter　is　that　on　board　that　ship　we　were
  leading　just　then　a　contemplative　life。　　I　will　not　say　anything
  of　my　privileged　position。　　I　was　there　〃just　to　oblige；〃　as　an
  actor　of　standing　may　take　a　small　part　in　the　benefit
  performance　of　a　friend。
  As　far　as　my　feelings　were　concerned　I　did　not　wish　to　be　in　that
  steamer　at　that　time　and　in　those　circumstances。　　And　perhaps　I
  was　not　even　wanted　there　in　the　usual　sense　in　which　a　ship
  〃wants〃　an　officer。　　It　was　the　first　and　last　instance　in　my　sea
  life　when　I　served　ship…owners　who　have　remained　completely
  shadowy　to　my　apprehension。　　I　do　not　mean　this　for　the　well…
  known　firm　of　London　ship…brokers　which　had　chartered　the　ship　to
  the；　I　will　not　say　short…lived；　but　ephemeral　Franco…Canadian
  Transport　Company。　　A　death　leaves　something　behind；　but　there
  was　never　anything　tangible　left　from　the　F。C。T。C。　　It　flourished
  no　longer　than　roses　live；　and　unlike　the　roses　it　blossomed　in
  the　dead　of　winter；　emitted　a　sort　of　faint　perfume　of　adventure