Heart of Darkness Characters

Heart of Darkness Characters

Charlie Marlow

Character Analysis

Marlow is a British seaman whose obsession with Africa brings him into the interior on the Company's steamboat.

Marlow and Kurtz

The way Marlow obsesses about Kurtz, we almost expect Kurtz to file a restraining order on the guy. (Or, we would if Kurtz weren't already half-dead by the time Marlow meets him.)

But it wasn't always like that. When Marlow first hears about Kurtz, he's not "very interested in him" (1.74). But when he hears the story about Kurtz turning back to the jungle, his ears prick up: he "[sees] Kurtz for the first time" (2.2) as a solitary white man among black men. And then, just a few paragraphs later, Marlow is actually excited to see the guy, saying that, for him, the journey has become entirely about meeting Kurtz. The boat, he says, "crawled towards Kurtz—exclusively" (2.7).

Weird. What was it about that story of Kurtz returning to the jungle that tickled Marlow's fancy? True, we've already seen that he's kind of obsessed with the jungle and its people. But at the same time he's drawn in by this primitive wilderness, he's terrified by it. It's thrilling but horrifying, kind of like Saw XVIII. (What, they haven't made that one yet?) Kurtz has done what Marlow can only dream of: refuse to return to the luxury and comfort of Europe and choose instead to pursue fortune and glory.

But Marlow's roller coaster of love doesn't doesn't end there. Once he actually meets the guy, he starts to resent him. Apparently, all that cultish adoration that the harlequin and the native Africans have for Kurtz turns Marlow's stomach: "He's no idol of mine" (3.6). And then he seems to decide that Kurtz is actually just childish—a helpless and selfish man who has ignorant dreams of becoming rich and powerful. (Note that when Marlow drags him back to the tent after Kurtz tries to escape, he's "not much heavier than a child" (3.29).)

Why the backpedaling? Well, we think that Marlow wants to differentiate himself from the brainwashed men around him—just like we claimed to hate Arcade Fire back in 2005 even though we secretly thought that Funeral was a great record. He also seems angry that he's effectively at Marlow's mercy, deep in the African interior. Or—to give Marlow some credit—maybe he really does believe that Kurtz is dangerous.

And then, at the end, Marlow seems to come back around to admiration. After Kurtz dies while gasping out the words "The horror! The horror!" (3.33), Marlow decides that these are words of self-realization, that maybe Kurtz has finally faced up to his horrible deeds and the depravity of human nature. "Kurtz was a remarkable man," Marlow says, because he "had something to say" and simply "said it" (3.48).

Marlow only spends a few days with Kurtz, but he still says that he "knew [Kurtz] as well as it's possible for one man to know another" (3.54). (Talk about a whirlwind romance.) But when Kurtz's Intended asks Marlow whether he admired Kurtz, Marlow never answers. We never find out what he would have said—but we do know that, when the fiancée suggests that Marlow loved the man, Marlow is left in "appalled dumbness" (3.57).

So, by the end of the story, does Marlow respect Kurtz? Admire him? Fear him? You tell us. He sure doesn't.

The Same But Different

This whole love me-love me not melodrama should be simple: Marlow admired Kurtz right up until he found out that the man put heads on sticks, at which point he stopped admiring him. Great. Let's all pack up and go home.

Er, not so fast. If you go home now, you'll you'll miss out on what makes Heart of Darkness just so darn awesome and powerful: Marlow is just like Kurtz. Yep: our protagonist, our loveable, sympathetic Marlow, is just like the crazed, cult-inspiring, heads-on-sticks-owning devil-man. Oh, the horror!

We'll start with the basics:

• Like Kurtz, Marlow comes from an upper middle class white European family.
• Both are, how do we say, arrogant: Marlow considers himself above the manager, the uncle, and the brickmaker while Kurtz establishes himself in an unparalleled seat of power among the native Africans.
• Both have streaks of obsession in them: Marlow becomes obsessed with Africa and finding Kurtz, while Kurtz stops at nothing to acquire as much ivory as possible.
• Both have powerful connections that allow them access to positions of power within the Company.
• Both men lose touch with reality—Kurtz in the fantasy of his own power and Marlow in the dream-like world of the jungle.
• Both men have eerily similar reactions to their forays to the interior of Africa. Marlow and Kurtz, despite their desire to conquer the wilderness, become victims of it: When Marlow observes native Africans dancing at the shore, he wonders why he doesn't go ashore "for a howl and a dance" (2.8). Later, he discusses Kurtz presiding over some "midnight dances" that ended in "certain unspeakable rites" (2.29).
• And finally, both men are described as gods—Kurtz as Jupiter and Marlow as Buddha (3.10, 3.87).

So, here's another million-dollar question for you: is Marlow ultimately able to differentiate himself from Kurtz?

Marlow and the Native Africans

For the most part, Marlow comes across as a nice guy, if not a particularly ethical one. He's no saint, or he's a helpless one, as he does nothing about the horrible scenarios of black slavery he encounters. But he does do little things that show compassion. He attempts to give a biscuit to a starving slave. He treats his own cannibals decently. When the helmsman dies, he makes sure he won't be ignobly eaten by the native Africans on board. So, on the surface level, Marlow is a decent guy who, as a product of his times, isn't about to start a civil rights movement in the late nineteenth century.

But, like most things in Heart of Darkness, it's really not that simple. What causes Marlow to feel such compassion for the native Africans? How does he see them in relation to himself? How does his foray down the Congo change the way he thinks?

Well, let's start by looking at his first word. We found these words so compelling that we underlined, highlighted, and circled them, as well as dog-earing the page and putting three sticky notes on the top. In case you weren't quite so over-zealous, we'll tell you straight-up that his first words are: "And this also has been one of the dark places of the earth" (1.8).

This is the part where we all say, "Oooh." Oooh indeed. Marlow is about to tell the story of a dark and primitive Africa which the Europeans are so kindly "civilizing." But he reminds you that Europe, too, was once a dark and primitive place.

From the start, Marlow takes this whole noble imperialism bit with a boulder of salt, telling his listeners that "strength is just an accident arising from the weakness of others" (1.12). He also notes that "This conquest of the earth, which mostly means the taking it away from those who have a different complexion […] than ourselves, is not a pretty thing" (1.12). He also questions everyone's use of words like "criminal," "enemy," and "rebel" in talking about the native Africans (3.6).

We know that Marlow isn't quite so comfortable with viewing the world in black and white. Things get even more complicated when he starts becoming like a "savage" himself. When he's talking to the manager at the outer station, Marlow is treated like a native African man—not offered a seat or any food. His response? "I was getting savage," he says, interrupting the man (1.53). Hmm. Rather than civilizing the "savages," it seems, Marlow is becoming like them.

Once he's underway, Marlow's attitudes get even fuzzier. When he looks at the native Africans dancing and howling, he doesn't see them as strange creatures. Instead, he says that they're "not inhuman" (2.8).

Interesting. Why not just say, "human"? Well, this is a nifty little device called "litotes." Marlow can't quite go so far as to call them human (as opposed to savage), so he says it more weakly by affirming its opposite. This sort-of-humanity is "thrilling," because it shows him that there's a "remote kinship" between him and the Africans (2.8)—the kinship of mortality. When the black helmsman dies, Marlow realizes that the "pilgrims" and the "savages" are linked by the one thing they have in common: mortality.

Freaky.

Marlow, Lies, and Justice

You might have noticed that Marlow makes a huge deal out of lies. He says he hates, detests, and can't bear a lie, that lies are reminiscent of death. So why does he lie to Kurtz's fiancée at the end of this whole story? Otherwise, "it would have been too dark" (3.86). Is he trying to protect the woman from the scary world of reality? Does he think that, by pretending the darkness and the horror of Kurtz's last words don't exist, they will somehow go away?

To have told the Intended the truth, he claims, would be to have "rendered Kurtz […] that justice which was his due" (3.86). After all, he tells us, Kurtz said that all he wanted was justice. What has justice come to mean in this novel, anyway? How can there be justice at all in a world where men put heads on sticks and are revered for it anyway?

You tell us.

All Hail Marlow

Conrad hints at some god-imagery when he has Marlow sits "cross-legged" like an "idol" (1.4). And then, in case we still don't get it, he straight out tells us Marlow was like Buddha (1.12). Oh, and in case we missed it the first time, he makes a big deal out of telling us at the end that Marlow sits like a "meditating Buddha " (3.87).

English-majory people would probably tell you that Conrad frames the story with a mention of Buddha at the beginning and then again at the end. To us, the point is that Marlow takes on the role of a spiritual figure, and specifically one whose role is to help other people reach enlightenment. But what does Marlow teach the men? Do the men get it? Is anyone enlightened by this tale?

One last thought: The nameless narrator tells us before the story begins that it will be an inconclusive tale. Does this fit with the Buddha imagery, or stand in contrast to it? What kind of teacher is inconclusive, anyway? (Did you notice that we're ending this section inconclusively?)

Curiosity Killed the Cat

As a kid, Marlow wanted to map the uncharted blank spaces on maps and to explore the "blankest" and most unknown of all places—Africa (1.16). No wonder that, as an explorer for the Company, he becomes curious about Kurtz—so curious that he's willing to listen in on private conversations and even sacrifice some of his men along the way. To us, it seems like Conrad might be suggesting there's something a little unethical about the very act of exploration. Whether you're trying to fill in blank spaces on a map or blank spaces in a person's mind (like with a novel), you're always looking into something you shouldn't.

Interestingly, because of Marlow's story-telling tendencies, we experience events the way he did: with much confusion and fog, both literal and metaphorical. When he starts ruminating on past events, our nameless narrator tells us that Marlow is not a typical seaman. He's a "wanderer" (1.9), and he tells his story as if the meaning is "outside" of the tale, brought out "as a glow brings out a haze" (1.3).

Hmm…are you curious yet?

Marlow and The Laaadies

Marlow may have a thing for mysterious, amoral men—but he doesn't seem to think much of women. Twice in the novel, he mentions women and always sees them as somehow divorced from reality, as living in another world: "It's queer how out of touch with truth women are," he says: "They live in a world of their own,  and there has never been anything like it, and never can be. It's too beautiful all together" (1.28). (Um, Marlow? If women literally make up half the world, then who's to say that their world isn't the "real" one?)

Anyway, Marlow obviously sees women as naïve and idealistic. But here's the rub: he wants them to stay that way. When he lies to Kurtz's Intended, it looks a lot like a chivalrous attempt to protect women from the world's brutal realities—like slavery and imperialism. Well, except for those two knitting women in black, who seem to have a weird power over Marlow—almost like they might be representations of fate, knitting up his destiny. Women: pure and evil all at once.

From our position, that contradiction seems like a pretty good way to sum op Mr. Marlow.

Mr. Kurtz

Character Analysis

Mr. Kurtz is a star agent of the Company who works in true ivory country, deep in the interior of Africa. Also, he goes crazy and dies.

Will the Real Mr. Kurtz Please Stand Up

Everyone who knows Kurtz (even his fiancée, who doesn't know him at all) agrees that he has all the ambition, charisma, and eloquence to achieve greatness. As the Intended says—although she's not the most reliable witness—he's a man of "promise," "greatness," a "generous mind," and a "noble heart" (3.66).

Come to think of it, everything we know about Kurtz is secondhand. So, let's start with what we do know.

It's a Jungle Out There

Kurtz represents a normal—if ambitious—man who realizes that to thrive in the Interior, he has to act like a god, someone who can lead these "primitive" people to the proverbial light and civilization.

But then greed gets in the way. His insatiable hunger for ivory drives him to make alliances and enemies among the native Africans, raiding village after village with the help of his African friends as he searches for ivory. His obsession takes over so much that Conrad/ Marlow even describes him in terms of the material he seeks: his head "was like a ball—an ivory ball" (2.29), and when he utters his final words, he carries an "expression of sombre pride" on his "ivory face" (3.42). The jungle has "got into his veins, consumed his flesh" (2.29), making him into a totally different man.

Maybe that's why Marlow tells us repeatedly that Kurtz has "no restraint" (2.30, 3.29). It's not as simple as "Kurtz goes to jungle; Kurtz becomes like native Africans; Heads on sticks ensue." In fact, Kurtz becomes something else altogether—something worse. (The horror! The horror!)

See, Africans do have a sense of decency and restraint. Think of the cannibals who eat rotten hippo meat instead of attacking the pilgrims whom they outnumber five to one. But not Kurtz. Kurtz has fallen a complete victim to the power of the jungle, has transformed into its "spoiled and pampered favorite."(2.29). He's basically become a child, and not a nice one, either: a greedy, selfish, and brutal playground bully.

Or as Marlow so beautifully says, the "powers of darkness have claimed him for their own" (2.29).

A Face for Radio

Marlow ends up refining his obsession with Kurtz all the way down to one particular aspect: his voice. He's not excited about seeing Kurtz or shaking his hand or talking about last night's Lakers game, he says—just hearing him talk. "The man presented himself as a voice" (2.24), Marlow says, actually breaking the order of the story's narrative to tell us that he does eventually get to talk to Kurtz. This little narrative interruption drives home just how important Kurtz's voice is.

Now consider this: Marlow, sitting on the Nellie and telling his story in the pitch-dark, is explicitly described as "no more to us than a voice" to the men that listen (2.66). And then, When he finds an "appeal" in the "fiendish row" of the Africans dancing on shore, he negates it with the claim, "I have a voice, too, and for good or evil mine is the speech that cannot be silenced" (2.8).

So is this voice business merely another tool to establish connections between Marlow and Kurtz? Maybe. If Marlow's voice is never silenced, what about Kurtz's? The guy dies, after all. But are his last words resonant for us? Does Heart of Darkness end on a note of "horror"?

Kurtz as a God

The native Africans worship Kurtz like a god, even attacking to keep Kurtz with them. But here's the irony: we're not sure whether Kurtz orders the attack or whether the native Africans do it on their own (we get conflicting stories from the harlequin). Kurtz may be a god, but he's also a prisoner to his devotees. He can order mass killings of rebels, but he can't walk away freely.

Hm. We're feeling like there might just be a little bit of symbolism here.

Ready for some more irony? Kurtz was apparently seven feet tall or so (although we figure Marlow was riding the hyperbole train here). But his name means "short" in German—which Marlow makes sure to point out, just in case we're not caught up with our Rosetta Stone cassettes. So, his name contradicts his god-like height, a discrepancy that reflects the big fat lie of his life and death, and which we're thinking means his life as a god was also false.

As for his death? You tell us.

Kurtz, Madness, and Sickness

First, is Kurtz mad? Um, yes. We think that jamming a bunch of heads on sticks might qualify, but if that weren't enough, Marlow makes sure we know that, although the man's intelligence is clear, Kurtz's "soul [is] mad" (3.29).

And then his madness becomes physical, so that his bodily sickness is a reflection of his diseased mind. His slow, painful spiral into death is marked by visions and unintelligible ravings. Parts of the narrative recount the emptiness of Kurtz's soul; this may be a commentary on the debilitating and devastating power of the wilderness to suck all the humanity out of a man.

And now for those famous final words: "The horror! The horror!" (3.43). Marlow interprets this for us, saying that these words are the moment Kurtz realizes exactly how depraved human nature is—that his inability to exert even a shred of self-control is the same darkness in every human heart. (Speak for yourself, Kurtz: there's a red velvet cupcake sitting on the counter that we're resisting quite nicely, thankyouverymuch.)

Ahem. As Marlow says, "Whether [Kurtz] knew of this deficiency [lacking restraint in gratification of his lusts] I can't say. I think the knowledge came to him at last—only at the very last" (3.5). So why do people still look up to Kurtz? We think they see in him the potential for greatness, along with charisma and ambition. And those qualities end up being Kurtz's legacy—not his madness and brutality. Is this Conrad's own condemnation of mankind's blindness?

Kurtz the Hero

Buckle up, set the airbags, and put on your oxygen masks: we have one more big idea about Kurtz: He's the result of progress.

Think about it. We know that Conrad isn't doing a simple light = good, dark = bad thing. Instead, he's suggesting that progress—moving into Africa, spreading Western culture—inevitably means taking part of the dark inside you. (Want a fancy word for this? We call it dialectics.) What Kurtz shows us is that progress isn't good. In fact, it's horrific.

In the nineteenth century, there was a general idea in Europe that history and cultures were evolving toward a better future. Western civilization was the pinnacle of human evolution, and eventually it was going to crowd out the darkness in other parts of the world.

Conrad didn't think so, but his objection wasn't the cultural relativism that makes us roll our eyes at that idea today. Today, we tend to see all cultures as valuable—different, sure, but equally worthwhile in their own way. Saying that Western culture is the pinnacle of human evolution and that we have a duty to educate people all over the world strikes many people as a little presumptuous and even silly.

It didn't strike Conrad as silly. It struck him as terrifying. Through Kurtz, Conrad shows us that the true result of "progress" is madness and horror.

The Manager

Character Analysis

The manager is a mediocre Company employee who lives and works at the Central Station. We're thinking that he works at the "central" station because he's average and commonplace (you know, central) in every way—that is, except for his "remarkably cold" eyes and creepy smile (1.52). That expression gives Marlow the willies. (Us too.)

The manager is jealous of Kurtz's success, but other than that he's a total blank—which is the point. He babbles a lot, but about nothing meaningful and his creepy smile is described as "seal applied on words to make the meaning of the commonest phrase appear absolutely inscrutable" (1.52). In other words, all his chitchat ends up seeming profound because he slaps on this mysterious, empty, smile.

He also has one other remarkable quality—he never gets sick. Maybe, Marlow says, because "there was nothing within him" (1.52). The manager himself says that anyone who comes to work in the interior "should have no entrails" (much like him).

Weirded out yet? You should be. The manager's character implies that the wilderness of the interior has a way of depleting or draining away what makes men human, leaving only a shell of the former self. Sort of like Kurtz, except instead of being replaced by a maniacal, ivory-hungry devil, this guy got replaced by nothing at all.

Since there is nothing within him, everything the manager says and does has no sincerity. All his energy is devoted to keeping up appearances. As Marlow observes, he "originat[es] nothing" because there's nothing there (1.52). He can't create; he can only destroy.

Huh. You could say that "destroying" is exactly what British imperialists were doing to Africa at the time. We knew this character was here for a reason.

The Brickmaker

Character Analysis

The brickmaker is another rather useless worker in the crew at Central Station, even though you'd think that, with a name like "brickmaker," he'd actually be up to something useful. Marlow notes "There wasn't a fragment of a brick anywhere in the station, and he had been there more than a year—waiting. It seems he could not make bricks without something … Anyway, it could not be found there and as it was not likely to be sent from Europe, it did not appear clear to me what he was waiting for" (1.56).

Ouch.

This obvious idleness is one of the reasons Marlow—who's definitely a hard worker—dislikes him so much. The other agents call him the "manager's spy" (1.56), and, appropriately, he tries to pry information out of Marlow. At first, Marlow is baffled trying to figure out what the guy wants, but in the end we find that the brickmaker is only seeking to advance his position in the Company.

Like the manager and his uncle, he's driven by ambition. However, unlike the manager, the brickmaker is a sycophant, sucking up to the people who he thinks will help him climb the Company ladder. He has no problem flattering and cajoling his way into what he wants.

Brickmaker, Brickmaker, Make Me a Brick

Check out how Marlow describes the brickmaker as having a "forked little beard and a hooked nose" (1.56), calling him a "papier-mâché Mephistopheles." (FYI, Mephistopheles was the devil in another story, Faust.) Indeed, the man has many of the characteristics attributed to Satan. He's lazy, greedy, and ambitious—plus, he has that silver tongue to tempt people into sin.

One last thing: the "hooked nose" and greed (having a "whole candle all to himself" [1.56]) make the brickmaker sound a lot like late nineteenth and early twentieth century stereotypes of Jewish people. And then there's the whole joke about needing "straw" to make bricks, which is an allusion to the story in the Hebrew Bible book of Exodus about the Israelites who the Pharaoh enslaved to make bricks (with straw).

What do you think? Is Conrad hitting the anti-Semitism button here? And, if so, what could he possibly be suggesting about Jewish people? About humanity in general?

The Intended

Character Analysis

The Intended is Kurtz's fiancée who stays snug in Belgium (probably eating delicious Belgian waffles and French fries with mayonnaise, hmm, is it lunch time yet?) while Kurtz sails off to gather ivory.

She's beautiful and often connected with imagery of light and heaven:

This fair hair, this pale visage, this pure brow, seemed surrounded by an ashy halo from which the dark eyes looked out at me. Their glance was guileless, profound, confident, and trustful. (3.53).

Check out that halo and the "pure brow": it matches her naïve and idealistic view of Kurtz, who she sees as a kind of saint, whose "goodness shone in every act" (3.70). She's utterly infatuated with Kurtz and believes herself the single most definitive authority on his character: "I am proud to know I understood him better than any one on earth" (3.59). Um, no.

The Intended is essentially a stand-in for every woman, everywhere. (Well, every white, European woman). Her value is measured by her beauty and idealism, and Marlow says that "We must help them to stay in that beautiful world of their own lest ours gets worse" (2.29). In other words, men need women to be beautiful and dumb so there's some bit of goodness in the world. Excuse us while we gag.

But we think it's more complicated than that. (Of course.) Marlow sees women as naïve, idealistic, and gullible—in other words, able to turn blind eyes to the bloody realities and brutalities of imperialism. (Who do you think is wearing all that ivory?) They end up standing in for all Europeans. Like the Intended, white men want to believe in the good and civilizing characteristics of the pilgrims sent into the interior. They want the illusion, and the ivory—not the reality of African slaves worked to death.