A Journey into the Soul in Heart of Darkness Essay -- Heart Darkness e

A Journey into the Soul in Heart of Darkness A picture is an abstract idea, brought into context to form something concrete. They are made up and created to give off some sort of feeling or mood, that one can relate too. The atmosphere helps determine what kind of mood the picture will take. Any author, of either a painting or piece of literature will set the mood by using their atmosphere to enhance the theme of their creation. In Heart of Darkness, Joseph Conrad uses mood and atmosphere to help create a portrait called, the journey into the soul. The journey to the soul is to find one's self. Atmosphere pervades the mood or spirit. The atmosphere aids in revealing the journey to find one's soul. The setting, "took in the forest, the creek, the mud, the river-seemed to beckon with a dishonoring flourish before the sunlit face of land a treacherous appeal to the lurking death, to the hidden evil, to the profound darkness of its heart." Conrad 54 Conrad does not even mention their exact location which is very peculiar. The main river was described in the form a snake. A snake can be looked at from many points of views, mythological, biblical, literal and metaphorically. The snake represents all the twists and turns and being able to find one's inner-self is very difficult and twisted. The snake represents some of the animal imagery in the novel. Perhaps this is a sign that the jungle is something living and not just an ordinary jungle. Literature's imagery helps to show the main idea th... ...sh off against the state of the reader. While reading the novel I was able to reflect on my own journey to the soul. Any reader can reflect and realize the inevitable. The journey is not a pleasant one, it is a very difficult task, where evil lurks in the smallest of places. These places could be anywhere including the soul and the soul is one of man's most unique qualities. It determines who we are and how we treat everyone surrounding our presence. In this universe people live and die but a soul is immortal and will undertake an eternity. Works Cited Conrad, Joseph.Heart of Darkness.Bantam Books:New York,1981. Resources for the Study of Joseph Conrad's Heart of Darkness.1998. Simon & Schuster.Webster's New World Dictionary.Macmillian:New York,1996.

Trapped – Creative Writing

The rampant stench of death, yes, that's it, that's my earliest memory. The pungent odour of decay numbing my already haggard senses. The room couldn't of been too big. I remember banging my head on a wall, and stubbing a toe on the opposite one. I remember struggling to my feet, and stumbling into the light. I wandered for ages along the side of a road, watching pairs of lights approach and skittishly dash away. Then there is blackness. As strange as that event was, the strangest thing that day was me. I felt. My body felt wrong. Those hands were not my hands; those legs were not my legs. My whole body ached, it felt like when you've sat in the same position for a too long, but amplified a hundred times. I was woken up by a blinding light in my face. The aroma of sterilisation exposed at once I was in a hospital. Quickly, I tried to sit up, but a sharp stabbing in my back forced me back to the taut linen. Against my will, I yelped at the pain, and a nurse was quick to my bedside with a calming hand on my brow. â€Å"I knew you would be awake soon†. I attempted to speak, but I could force the words from behind those hideous foreign lips. She walked to the foot of the bed and looked at a chart. She quickly glanced back at a monitor, fixed to the wall. Her young forehead furrowed, and she hailed an older doctor. She returned to me, her senior in tow. â€Å"Hello there,† he barked, in a voice that wanted to be far friendlier than it was, â€Å"Can you hear me? † Again, words formed in my throat, I struggled with them, trying to remember how to get the sentence out. I made do with a laboured nod. The doctor looked at the nurse and muttered a blur of words. The nurse thought for a moment then replied in her wondrously soft tone. The doctor nodded sharply. Without warning he shone a vicious torch in my eyes. He swung the instrument left and right, his look of concern turned to one of pity. He looked again at the nurse, who smiled a stunningly beautiful smile at him, although I knew it was one of apprehension. I feel back into the sleep. April 23rd – St. George's day, the calendar on the wall proudly proclaimed. Quickly, I tried to sit up; I slid back, resting my spine against the padded lilac headboard. The room was alien to me; a glass-fronted cabinet in the corner displayed a few dusty relics, the remnants of an over loved life. The door slowly opened, a figure apprehensively poked a frail head through the opening. â€Å"Lie down Boy, you need your strength† â€Å"W-Who†¦ † I strained out. â€Å"Don't worry my boy, you're safe now† Her voice was soft, but not like the nurse's, it was soft with experience. â€Å"W-Who† I managed again. She answered by ambling to the bed, and placing a coarse hand on my brow. With that she left the room, closing the door harshly behind her. I dragged the floral covers off, onto the wooden floor, and managed to roll with it. I struggled to my feet, which felt numb on the hard, cold floor. I stumbled to the close, mauve wall, and followed it to the door. I reached for the black metal handle, and it took all my strength to jerk it down far enough for the door to swing open. The room I entered was much bigger than the bedroom. Full of tasteless furnishings, the lavender tinted room had a disgusting flowery scent. I could see the door at the other end, next to the large bay windows. If I could run I would easily make it. But as it was, I knew it was unlikely I would reach the exit in time. I braced myself, took a deep breath, and stumbled as fast as I could towards the light. Michael! † It did not even register that the frail old lady was referring to me; I knew it was directed at me, but Michael isn't my name, it seemed foreign to me. I kept heading for the door. Using whatever I could find to support me, the door was getting closer. I awkwardly stretched out my arm, and grabbed the brass knob. I shook the knob in everyway I could, until eventually it clicked open. It swung open and I worked down the cobbled path. As I started across the pavement I realised I was not only wearing no shoes, but was clad in ill-fitting, pale blue pyjamas. I continued staggering quickly down the road, I glanced over my shoulder, she wasn't following me. The terrace of houses gave way to a wide, green park. I lurched towards the grass and fell down to the warm earth. My eyes again fell closed, but this time I was stayed conscious. I dreamt of past times, faded images of long ago, of woeful agony, and beacons of hope. The sound of laughter woke me up. My obvious suffering had created a small audience, consisting of three schoolboys and a scraggy dog. One of the boys held a stick close to my face. I built up my strength, and in one swift action, I opened my eyes and thrust up my hand. The three boys and the dog went running away in the direction I had come from. Again, I struggled to my feet. I took a few minutes to get my bearings. â€Å"Michael! † I heard from afar. The lady had finally decided to search for me. Quickly, the idea came into my head, the bush was just there, and here search was not going to be a thorough one. I clambered into the leafy bush, and curled up into a ball. I waited, and eventually she came â€Å"Where are you Michael? † she demanded. She wandered past the bush, totally unaware that her quarry was so close. On she continued, with every glance I laid upon her, the more repulsive she appeared to me. From her yellow teeth, to her speckled, bowed legs, she was the picture of imperfection. When I was sure she was far enough from me, I left the bush, and returned up the pavement to the house I had so recently vacated. I knew it would hold some clues, I just need time to find them. The room was not as I remembered it. One of the two beige sofas was overturned, as if the dim-witted lady had looked for me under there. A set of shelves stood in the corner; I scanned every shelf, and eventually found what I was looking for. A wonderfully carved wooden box. For some reason I took the box back into the room that was made mine, I suppose I felt safer there. I sat on the bed and spread the contents of the box over the hideous bed spread. I rummaged through the collection of documents, many of which were faded by time, and looked at each of them, looking for clues. My attention was drawn to a very faded pink A4 sheet, at the top the crest of the county of Hampshire, and the words ‘Certificate of Birth'. The certificate was filled in with a neat, yet decorative scrawl. The certificate was made out on the 17th of July 1937, for one â€Å"Margaret Baker†. That must have been the women who's house I was currently trespassing. I looked around for another one, one that could explain a little about ‘Michael'. But there were no more. I hunted on, giving each one a fleeting glance, until I discovered a small, leather bound book. I opened it and quickly flicked through the dog-eared pages. As my eyes met with the address, my heart went cold. The book seemed to be laughing at me, mocking my discomfort, taking pleasure in my obvious pain. I ripped the yellowed page out, and threw the address book to the cold floor. For the second time I left the house, this time I broke into a run as I left the deep odour of cheap air freshener behind. I ran to the end of the road, gasping deep breaths of the still noon air. I took a left turn into Tanam Street, and glanced again at the folded leaf of paper, still in my hand. I scanned the houses, as I laid eyes on it, I knew it was the right one. I hobbled towards the black abode, the white of the original faux Tudor dicor trying to break through the thick back paint. Cautiously I opened the black door. The house was empty, judging by the dust, it had been for some days. I wondered round the house, there really wasn't much to see in it. Each room was sparsely filled with simple furnishings, and uninspired pieces of angst art. I opened one door that led into an equally simple bedroom. The only other door stood on the opposite wall. It creaked open slowly. I carefully walked down the wooden stairs into the darkness beyond. The cold air of the cellar penetrated my bones. I rubbed my hand along the breezeblocked wall searching for a light switch. As I got to the bottom my fingers found a cold, steel knob. I turned it the way it wanted to go. With a fizz, the room filled with the glow of the flickering bar light. The room was empty, apart from a desk in the far corner. There was nothing on the desk, and both of the drawers were locked. My eyes drifted up to the corkboard attached gruffly to the wall. Various black and white photos were pinned to it, and I pulled one off at random. My body froze. There I was. Lying on a steel bed, there I was. The familiar muscles, the face, the hair, the eyes, all mine. I let the picture fall to the ground. My eyes drifted from one picture to another, each one reminding of myself when I was free. The nostalgia turned to anger as I thought of who could of done this, and why they would want to. My darting eyes ended up on one picture. Whoever had done this to me, whoever had usurped my body, had set up a sign. It said simply â€Å"Marcus Thompson – 24 Payet Drive. † That was it. That was me. Memories came back to me in a flood, knocking me to the hard concrete floor. I got up of the floor and drifted back up the splintering wooden stairs, and wavered out of the house. Again I was feeling light headed, and my joints were again aching. I closed my eyes, yet I knew exactly where I was going, the memories of my lifelong home were ripe in my mind. I closed my eyes and continued walking. The memories in my mind guiding me back to myself. I can't remember how far I walked but when I opened my eyes it was dark. I found myself sitting on a bench next to a signpost. â€Å"Payet Drive† it announced proudly. I stood, still dazed, and began to make my way down the short road. Number 24 stood just I remembered it, another of the phoney Tudor houses that dominated the area. I made the quick walk to the font door; I tried the handle, to find it locked. I stood blankly for a moment. Without thinking I bent over and picked up a large rock next to the doormat. Underneath was a blue key. I slid it into its hole and slowly turned it, slowly as to make as little noise as possible when the bolt clicked open. I slid the door ajar, and entered quietly through the gap. There was no sign of anyone. Methodically, I searched the rooms of the house, each one bringing back another memory. I ended up upstairs, at the end of the landing. This was the last door; this was the door to my bedroom. As with all the rooms I searched, I carefully opened the panelled oak door, and entered, this time with more apprehension then before. For the third time that day, my body froze. Seeing yourself in third person is an unsettling experience. I lay silently asleep with my back against the blue wall, my feet hanging off the side of the cramped bed. Tears filled my eyes I gazed at the body on the, unaware that it, that I was being watched. That's when it hit me. It was him. All along I had assumed there was a third party involved, an insane individual, bent on swapping round the minds of two men. But, no man who has been through what I have could have slept so soundly. He did this too me. To us. The anger slowly built up inside me. The agitation and fear of the past days gave way to this new sensation of rage. I couldn't control the body; the prison in which I was enclosed seemed to move on its own accord, across the landing, down the stairs. I found myself in the kitchen. The knife lay, glinting, smiling softly at me. My hands slowly wrapped round the warm black handle. I struggled to lift the knife with my weakened arms. I crept silently with trepidation up the carpeted stairway. I nudged the door open. There I was, mouth hanging open, peaceful in ignorance. I rubbed my hand down my face, reminiscing of past times. I stepped back to look at myself for the final time. My body lay perfectly still, no longer breathing. The thin gash across the neck marked the end. I lifted up the cover, clambered onto the bed. My eyes closed, and I fell into a long peaceful sleep.

The Tell Tale Heart And The Yellow Wallpaper Essay

â€Å"The Tell-Tale Heart† and â€Å"The Yellow Wallpaper† each depict a personal viewpoint of mentally ill characters, who both differ and are alike in various aspects of â€Å"madness.† Edgar Allan Poe’s character denies a presence of madness entirely, yet blames a physical ailment instead. As deeply disturbed as the character seems because of the eye, he abruptly decides to eradicate what he believes is the primary issue rather than considering attempting to heal his own â€Å"disease.† Charlotte Gilman’s story differs in the sense that the character somewhat acknowledges her mental instability, but is similar in how she eventually attempts to act upon it. While the character acknowledges her mental problem, the progression of the story shows her problem worsening due to the conditions she is placed in because of her feeling of entrapment. Each character’s â€Å"madness† is fundamentally the same, but differs on the basis of how they accept it, and act upon it. By narrating from the character’s point of view, Poe creates a somewhat understanding of madness by providing insight of the character’s disturbing thoughts. As a result of this, his blaming of a physical condition seems almost legitimate until proven wrong when he falsely hears the heart beating at the end. Through establishing this insight, the narrator portrays madness as a condition the victim is oblivious to, and instead reacts based on the symptoms of it. This is especially evident through the description of how he is disturbed byShow MoreRelatedThe Tell Tale Heart And The Yellow Wallpaper983 Words   |  4 PagesEdgar Allen Poe’s â€Å"The Tell-Tale Heart† and Charlotte Perkins Gilman’s â€Å"The Yellow Wallpaper† share a common theme of insanity. Simple objects in these stories drove the main characters to insanity. These characters share similar traits, but also differ. Their surroundings and en vironment are factors that caused their behavior. Both characters seemed trapped. Both character’s minds were trapped with the thought of the item that drove them crazy. In â€Å"The Tell-Tale Heart† a man is obsessed with anRead More Madness in The Yellow Wallpaper and The Tell-Tale Heart1679 Words   |  7 PagesMadness in The Yellow Wallpaper and The Tell-Tale Heart Compare the portrayal and use of madness in The Yellow Wallpaper by Charlotte Perkins Gilman and The Tell-Tale Heart by Edgar Allan Poe. Which story did you prefer and why? The Yellow Wallpaper by Charlotte Perkins Gilman and the Tell-Tale Heart by Edgar Allen Poe both describe characters who in the opinion of other people are insane. The characters hysterical behaviour due to their insanity is depicted as the stories progress. TheRead MoreThe Yellow Wallpaper and the Tell Tale Heart Analysis1189 Words   |  5 PagesHawkins 1 Deidre Professor Connors English 102-15 March 12, 2011 Narrative Unreliability and Symbolisms in â€Å"The Tell -Tale Heart† and â€Å"The Yellow Wallpaper† â€Å"The Tell -Tale Heart† by Edgar Allan Poe, was released in 1843. It is one of Poe’s shortest stories and provides a look into paranoia and mental deterioration. â€Å"The Yellow Wallpaper† by Charlotte Perkins Gilman, was released in 1899. This story also provides a look into mental deterioration and had been misinterpreted when it wasRead MoreA Tell Tale Heart By Edgar Allan Poe1156 Words   |  5 Pagesthe stories we read in class contain some level of madness. For example in the short stories â€Å"The Yellow Wallpaper† by Charlotte Perkins Gilman â€Å"The Tell-Tale Heart† by Edgar Allan Poe, both of the main character in these stories believe that they are perfectly wise, but their out of control behaviors proves that they’re mentally ill or to be more specific insane. In the short story â€Å"A tell-tale heart† the unknown narrator is telling us a story about his neighbor who is an old man but his of a vulture:Read MoreTell Tale Heart and the Yellow Wall Paper1321 Words   |  6 Pagesstories â€Å"The Tell Tale Heart† by Edgar Allen Poe, and â€Å"The Yellow Wall Paper† by Charlotte Perkins Gilman. Even though their writing styles are far apart they deal with a similar issue. Both authors deal with the fragility of the human mind. Both stories are very interesting and hold you to the core perhaps it is because any truly sane person knows that there is a little madness in all of us. Maybe that is why many people still read their stories today. In the story â€Å"The Tell Tale Heart† the narratorRead MoreEdgar Allen Poe and Charlotte Perkins Are Unreliable Narrators: A Discussion1013 Words   |  4 Pageswere two prominent American writers that explored the psychological constructs of the characters contained within their short stories. In The Tell-Tale Heart, by Poe, the unnamed narrator maintains that he is not mad despite the fact that he has murdered someone in the process of trying to destroy an Evil eye. On the other hand, in The Yellow Wallpaper, by Perkins, the unnamed narrator recognizes that her nerves have contributed to her descent into madness. It can be argued that both unnamedRead More Characterization of Women in The Yellow Wallpaper and Desirees Baby1323 Words   |  6 PagesCharacterization of Women in The Yellow Wallpaper and Desirees Baby  Ã‚   There was a time (not so long ago) when a mans superiority and authority wasnt a question, but an accepted truth. In the two short stories, Desirees Baby, and The Yellow Wallpaper, women are portrayed as weak creatures of vanity with shallow or absent personalities, who are dependent on men for their livelihood, and even their sanity. Without men, these women were absolutely helpless and useless. Their very existenceRead MoreThe Yellow Wallpaper By Charlotte Perkins Gilman1179 Words   |  5 Pagesoppression, especially while trying to deal with her post-partum depression. As a result, she was inspired to write the short story â€Å"The Yellow Wallpaper† in which she tells the tale of a woman that has a severe mental break due to her mental illness. The narrator is also heavily oppressed by her husband and represents the society of her time. â€Å"The Yellow Wallpaper† expresses the oppression of women through the husband’s control over the narrator in which she is isolated, treated as a child, and forcedRead MoreFiction Essay: Yellow Wallpaper and Story of the Hour1517 Words   |  7 Pagesï » ¿Victoria Reyes English 104-OL5 Professor Steiner September 9, 2013 â€Å"The Yellow Wallpaper and Story of The Hour: A Character Analysis† Marriage has often been described as one of the most beautiful and powerful unions one human can form with another. It is the sacred commitment and devotion that two people share in a relationship that makes marriage so appealing since ancient times, up until today. To have and to hold, until death do us part, are the guarantees that two individuals makeRead MoreThe Tell Tale Heart Essay1071 Words   |  5 Pagesthe narrator tells the story about how there is a killer on the college campus, and in the end we find out he is the killer. â€Å"The Yellow Wallpaper† by Charlotte Perkins Gilman is a story from the perspective of a mentally ill woman, who is on a summer stay at a colonial mansion, and her husband makes her stay in a bedroom to treat her mental illness, however the result is compromised due to the wallpaper in the room making her feel more ill than ever before. Lastly â€Å"The Tell-Tale Heart† by Edgar Allan