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57 pages 1 hour read

Joseph Conrad

An Outpost Of Progress

Fiction | Short Story | Adult | Published in 1897

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Literary Devices

Irony

Irony can be tricky. Irony puts tremendous responsibility on the reader. It juxtaposes multiple incongruous realities in the hopes that the reader will perceive what often the characters themselves do not or refuse to. The difference between what the characters perceive and what the reader understands creates irony.

Although the story is constructed on Conrad’s stinging critique of European colonialism, that criticism escapes both Belgians within the narrative, and it is up to the reader to note the significant differences between what the Belgians profess and the reality of their outpost life. Neither Belgian moves toward the sort of epiphany that would indicate they have come to terms with the hypocrisy of the European occupation of central Africa. Despite their privileged position as emissaries of Western civilization, they are lazy, incompetent, unfocused, and entirely self-involved, none of which they actually understand about themselves. They see themselves as the white men able to direct the operations of the outpost when in actuality the entire outpost is under the de facto guidance of Makola, who, despite his fawning nature with the white men, loathes them and sees them as comically inferior. The so-called Outpost of Progress is itself a sustained deception: despite its grand title, it is three hastily erected ramshackle buildings alongside the Congo River. The European’s professed mission—to bring civilization and culture to the “uncivilized” locals of the Congo is quickly revealed to be little more than a land grab with the intention of pillaging valuable resources (such as ivory) from locals, who they believe have neither the awareness nor the weaponry to stop them. The Belgians’ angry objections and moral outrage over Makola’s deal to trade servants for the load of ivory is quickly exposed as hypocrisy as the two Belgians calculate the value of the ivory. The civilized white men reveal their savage nature when Kayerts and Carlier chase each other around the hut like caged animals over nothing more than a spoonful of sugar, the argument ending when Kayerts shoots his unarmed companion point blank. Nothing is as it appears, and the white men in the story never see what both Conrad and by extension the reader do.

Though irony is borne out of the tension between what the narrator understands and what the characters do not, it is defined as behavior or events that are the opposite of what would be expected. In this case, the characters expect to be shining examples of civilized behavior and to succeed in what they believe to be the noble goal of bringing the “savage” locals into the bosom of Christian morality. However, these supposed examples of Western ideals succumb to the pressure of their posting and prove themselves to have precisely the kind of savage, immoral instincts they were sent there to fight against. This flipping of the script is the very definition of irony.

Narrator

When the two Belgians arrive at the remote outpost, they struggle to acclimate to their new surroundings. We are told as much. “[Kayerts and Carlier] lived like blind men in a large room, aware only of what came in contact with them (and of that only imperfectly), but never able to grasp the general aspect of things” (Part One, Paragraph 10). But who is talking? Who so completely and unapologetically reveals the characters’ incompetency, foolishness, and limited grasp of reality?

Much happens in the story—two genial if incompetent white Europeans slowly deal with mental health issues and violence, escalating to murder and suicide, all amid the isolation of central Africa—but the story itself is less about the action and more about who tells the story of that action. At regular moments, a narrator steps in, violates the tidy frame of the storytelling to render judgments and to offer sage insights into the unfolding action.

That narrator, never given a name, compels the action by providing a pointed and critical ongoing commentary on the two Belgians and by stepping inside the heads of both Belgians and sharing the perceptions of the unfolding action. This limited omniscient narrator achieves two interrelated goals: 1) The narrator frame gives the story its cautionary tale feel as it become a story teaching the difficult lessons that human behavior is forever a mystery, right and wrong are perceptions not absolutes, and at the core of the human heart is a dark and stubborn immorality that renders Christian civilization ironic. The narrator who maintains his authority throughout the story knows this. The narrator’s break-in commentary (the passages reflect Conrad’s own perceptions of these characters) reflects the tradition of realism already established in European literature in novels by Gustave Flaubert (France), Leo Tolstoy (Russia), Thomas Hardy (Britain), and Henry James (America), among others, in which the omniscient narrator not only tells the narrative events but intrudes at critical moments to interject a broader insight into the unfolding action. 

Ambiguity

Why does Makola sell his own people into slavery? Why does Kayerts go along with this immoral, even criminal deal? Why does Kayerts refuse Carlier the sugar? Why does Kayerts shoot an unarmed Carlier? Why does Makola volunteer to cover up the murder of Carlier? Why does Kayerts hang himself?

Short answer: No one knows.

A contemporary audience, versed now in more than a century of fiction after Conrad, can accept the idea of a story inevitably working its way to an open-ended non-ending rich with uncertainty and unanswered (and unanswerable) questions about characters’ personalities and motivation because that open-ended non-ending is truer to how life itself unfolds. A happy ending with all the loose ends tied up tidily is an artifice, a convention that works only in sentimental escapist fiction. The real world is steeped in ambiguity that hangs like the dense fog at the dock at the close of the story.

For the late Victorian readers of Conrad’s era, however, a story that would so casually dismiss the device of a clear ending and drop the reader into a thicket of ambiguity would seem at best frustrating, at worst a waste of time because it indicates a writer not entirely in control of the material. Conrad pioneers the concept of using ambiguity as a powerful device for recreating the reality of day-to-day life, where behavior is not clear and where motivation is suggestive rather than explanatory. Questions raised by the story and by its characters are not resolved, and by this technique Conrad exposes the fallacy of explanation encouraged by teachers, ministers, lawyers, and scientists. Kayerts enters the Congo happy with himself and his grasp of the world and his life, but he is left just months later without the comfortable illusions of civilization and culture or a handy sense of causality and a logical universe, leaving him with the realization that he is little more than a craven and brute animal. Ambiguity destroys him—glimpsing the ambiguous nature of the world is one thing, the narrator cautions, living in it is something completely different. 

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