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Initially, it’s worth noting that every time I read Things Fall Apart, I am reminded how much I enjoy it. It’s a deceptively simple book, and in between readings, I find myself forgetting how much Achebe accomplishes with his stylistic approach. Solomon Iyasere seems to feel the same way, noting:

The artistry of Things Fall Apart lies mainly in concealment of its art; it appears to be what Angus Wilson called it in his Observer review, “Mr. Achebe’s very simple but excellent novel.” Its deceptive simplicity emerges clearly when it is compared with Achebe’s other novel about village life, Arrow of God. The structure, plot, language and narrative technique of Things Fall Apart combine to entertain the reader and lead her towards an overwhelming question which then proliferates in her mind into a series of related questions: was Okonkwo right to kill the messenger as he tried to rouse the lost coherence of the tribe; were there the seeds of disintegration within the tribe or were the whites responsible; is the “civilized” tolerance of men like Obierika destructive; did Okonkwo seal his own fate when he killed Ikemefuna and if he had not done so could it have made a difference to the fate of the tribe? The book tantalizes the reader with implicit questions rather like the teasing question of whether the witches’ prophecy leads Macbeth to kill Duncan thus fulfilling the prophecy. Arrow of God tells a similar story but without similar effects, and without the beautiful simplicity of Things Fall Apart.

One of the questions that I always confront in my reading is whether or not the novel is a tragedy. Certainly, Okonkwo is an elevated character–renowned in his village for his work ethic and prowess as a warrior. At the same, though, he seems almost comical in his absurd (more than his cultural values) sexism, his hyperbolic anger, and his inability to bend. When the novel culminates with his death, I always feel a sense of shock and sorrow, despite his often terrible nature.

C.L. Innes argues that the novel is not a tragedy, suggesting that Okonkwo does not have the stature of characters like Nwoye or Obierka:

For tragedy implies the working out in men’s lives of a rigorous fatality that transcends the individual’s ability to comprehend or to arrest its pre-ordained course of events. . . . His accidental killing of a villager and his subsequent exile from Umuofia are the workings of a blind fate crossing his path to his own conception of self-realisation. . . . For Okonkwo’s inflexibility, his tragic flaw, is a reflection of his society.

I’m not sure I can agree. While Okonkwo’s downfall is certainly a reflection of his culture, it seems that it is more than blind fate that leads to his downfall. His pride, his anger, and his inflexibility, which to some extent are all necessary, are his tragic flaws, and at the same time, things that I cannot help but admire.

Perhaps Iyasere, again, says it best:

As a careful reading of Things Fall Apart reveals, one of Achebe’s great achievements is his ability to keep alive our sympathy for Okonkwo despite our moral revulsion from some of his violent, inhuman acts. With Obierika, we condemn him for participating in the killing of the innocent boy, Ikemefuna. We despise him for denying his son, Nwoye, love, understanding, and compassion. And we join the village elders in disapproving Okonkwo’s uncompromisingly rigid attitude toward unsuccessful, effeminate men such as his father, Unoka, or Usugo. Yet we share with the narrator a sustained sympathy for him. We do not simply identify with him, nor defend his actions, nor admire him as an heroic individual. We do give him our innermost sympathies because we know from his reactions to his own violence that deep within him he is not a cruel man. It is this contrasting, dualistic view of Okonkwo that the narrator consistently presents. On the one hand, we see Okonkwo participating in the brutal killing of Ikemefuna, his “son,” but on the other, we see him brooding over this violent deed for three full days. In another instance, we see him dispassionately castigating his fragile, loving daughter, Ezinma, and deeply regretting that she is not a boy, while on another occasion we see him struggling all night to save her from iba or returning again and again to the cave to protect her from harm at the hands of Chielo, priestess of Agbala.

 

 

Heart of Darkness is always an interesting experience. Conrad’s dense prose is an interesting challenge, and I find myself forced to pay much more attention to detail than I often do with other texts. 🙂 I’m always most drawn to the argument that Marlow advances at the outset of his tale: that the power of England, as impressive as it seems, is really nothing more than a brief moment in history:

“I was thinking of very old times, when the Romans first came here, nineteen hundred years ago — the other day. . . . Light came out of this river since — you say Knights? Yes; but it is like a running blaze on a plain, like a flash of lightning in the clouds. We live in the flicker — may it last as long as the old earth keeps rolling! But darkness was here yesterday.

Marlow’s comparison is powerful: what the English saw was a historical epoch, was by the standards of human history, nothing more than a flicker or flash of lightning. It’s hard not to think about America’s position in the world when reading these words. Do many people of great empires ever have the insight that Conrad/Marlow did, and see the “brooding gloom” descend over their empire?