appen to us in the temperamental depths of our being, where a
man indeed must live alone but need not give up all hope of holding
converse with his kind.

This perhaps is enough for me to say on this particular occasion about
these, my parting words, about this, my last mood in my great passion
for the sea. I call it great because it was great to me. Others may call
it a foolish infatuation. Those words have been applied to every love
story. But whatever it may be the fact remains that it was something too
great for words.

This is what I always felt vaguely; and therefore the following pages
rest like a true confession on matters of fact which to a friendly and
charitable person may convey the inner truth of almost a life-time. From
sixteen to thirty-six cannot be called an age, yet it is a pretty long
stretch of that sort of experience which teaches a man slowly to see and
feel. It is for me a distinct period; and when I emerged from it into
another air, as it were, and said to myself: "Now I must speak of these
things or remain unknown to the end of my days," it was with the
ineradicable hope, that accompanies one through solitude as well as
through a crowd, of ultimately, some day, at some moment, making myself
understood.

And I have been! I have been understood as completely as it is possible
to be understood in this, our world, which seems to be mostly composed
of riddles. There have been things said about this book which have moved
me profoundly; the more profoundly because they were uttered by men
whose occupation was avowedly to understand, and analyze, and
expound--in a word, by literary critics. They spoke out according to
their conscience, and some of them said things that made me feel both
glad and sorry of ever having entered upon my confession. Dimly or
clearly, they perceived the character of my intention and ended by
judging me worthy to have made the attempt. They saw it was of a
revealing character, but in some cases they thought that the revelation
was not complete.

One of them said: "In reading these chapters one is always hoping for
the revelation; but the personality is never quite revealed. We can only
say that this thing happened to Mr. Conrad, that he knew such a man and
that thus life passed him leaving those memories. They are the records
of the events of his life, not in every instance striking or decisive
events but rather those haphazard events which for no definite reason
impress t