Chance

Many years ago, I tried reading Joseph Conrad's Chance. The first few pages were like a scene from a movie. There was a lot of activity, which left me breathless. The conversational style also discouraged me. I found it too complex and narrative. So I closed the book, and went on to read other simpler ones. I tried the same way a few more times, then gave up.

Then, a few years ago, sometime around late 2003, praises about Chance in various write-ups goaded me to try one more time. I picked it up again, as it was gathering dust, and to not read it would be a waste of good material. My illness (I don't remember what it was) gave me the time to stick to the pages and finally I was able to finish it. This time, I was able to understand every word of it. The false starts had ended, and I communed with the thoughts of Joseph Conrad.

At times, the dense prose and the endless deliberations were too heavy on my sick head. But the outcome of not giving up easily was that I read an excellent and evocative story by a master storyteller.

The dark and the sombre constantly hung in the air, with the sad life of Flora getting on to me on every page. At times it was frustrating, as I wanted to help her in some way. Everyone seemed to be ill-treating her. Also, people seemed to misunderstand one another, and no single situation could be comprehended in a simple way. Everything was complex and to make each other understand about life easily was difficult.