The recent release of yet another superhero film ― Christopher Nolan’s “The Dark Knight Rises” (2012) ― raises the question of why, and in what sense, these figures still speak to us today. From Superman to Spider-Man, what they all seem to share is an exemplary sense of morality: they are above all moral heroes, unique individuals willing to put their lives at risk to do the right thing at the right time. But if one is not in possession of superpowers and a fancy suit, how does one ever know the right thing at the right time? 

In the “Nicomachean Ethics” (350 BC), the Greek philosopher Aristotle explores this question, and he relates it to an even bigger issue ― the happy or good life, or eudaimonia. According to Aristotle, eudaimonia is essentially to follow the path of reason. Reason, here in the Aristotelian sense, implies a notion of moderation or self-government; a rational action is one that is neither excessive nor inadequate in nature ― it is the middle between two extremes, the “golden mean,” as Aristotle formulates it.

The golden mean is a life determined by right actions at all times, one that Aristotle also calls the virtuous life. Courage, for example, is a virtue; but too much of it leads to recklessness, whereas the opposite implies cowardice. Aristotle writes: “Virtue, then, is a state of character concerned with choice, lying in a mean, i.e. the mean relative to us, this being determined by a rational principle, and by that principle by which the man of practical wisdom would determine it.” Crucial here is Aristotle’s stress on the choice of the individual, because the golden mean can never be determined in advance, once and for all.

That is to say, each individual must ― on his or her own ― decide what the right choice in a given situation is. The virtuous individual is thus one who knows what the rational (or right) choice is ― and who is able to translate this knowledge into action.

One of the great tasks of literature has always been to complicate the insights of philosophy, its counterpart and rival; nowhere is this truer than in the case of Joseph Conrad’s “Lord Jim” (1900), a novel that explores the pitfalls and perils of the Aristotelian notion of virtue. The first half of Conrad’s novel narrates the mysterious circumstances of an incident involving the Patna, a boat carrying 800 Muslim pilgrims heading to Mecca.

The boat’s chief mate, Jim, is a romantic at heart, drawn toward the sea at an early age in search of glory and heroism; when Jim boards the Patna, he is desperate to prove himself as a virtuous, courageous being ― a moral hero. On previous occasions, we are told, Jim was either sick or simply in the wrong place when fate offered the chance to show moral character. This time, he is determined not to let the opportunity slip away; as the boat sails on, Jim watches the vast ocean, dreaming about all the heroic exploits that some day might come his way.

All of a sudden, the Patna is hit by something ― the novel never clarifies what ― and while inspecting the damage, Jim begins to understand the gravity of the situation; that the boat may sink at any minute, and that there are not enough lifeboats to save all 800 passengers.

The passengers are asleep, and Jim imagines what would happen if they woke up and discovered the terrible tragedy awaiting them; their last minutes consumed with panic and terror. It is better to die dreaming, Jim reasons. When a passenger suddenly grabs him and utters the word “water,” Jim quickly silences him ― believing that the man knows about the accident, the sea water flooding the inside of the lower deck.

The passenger, however, merely wants some water for his child. Here, the novel provides a clue indicating something flawed about Jim’s sense of judgment.

Meanwhile, a threatening squall is approaching on the horizon, the inevitable doom of the Patna. At this point, Jim for some inexplicable reason hesitates, as if paralyzed by some unknown force. What follows is the fateful scene around which the entire novel is composed; the other crew members have untied a lifeboat, and as the squall draws nearer, one of them, a sailor named George, dies from a heart attack.

The crew members, now in the lifeboat, cry out: “Jump, George! Jump!” In the dark of night, they are unaware that George has suddenly died, and that the person standing on the deck is in fact Jim. Here, the novel’s prose becomes extremely ambiguous and obscure ― until the point at which Jim tersely declares: “I had jumped … it seems.”

Miraculously, the Patna does not sink, but is later found and rescued by another ship. Subsequently, the crew members are found guilty of deserting a boat loaded with passengers. Only Jim, however, chooses to face the charges and accept the naval court’s punishment. But his real punishment is the shame of being marked as a coward. For Jim has always dreamt about being a hero; when the moment finally comes, his courage ironically fails him ― and he ends up doing the wrong thing.

On various occasions, Jim attempts to explain what happened on that night; “I stumbled over his legs,” he claims at one point, and elsewhere he describes the event as if some demonic force pushed him. From another perspective, however, it seems that Jim simply saved his own skin and fled like a coward, leaving 800 pilgrims to their miserable fate.

Over several chapters, the novel outlines different eye-witness accounts of what happened on that fateful night, but why or how more specifically Jim ended up in the lifeboat remains unresolved; deliberately so, one might add, as if the novel wants to question the possibility of ever doing the right thing ― for the right reasons, at the right time ― in the heat of the action.

Does one ever know the true motives behind a particular choice of action? This is the implicit question Conrad’s novel asks us by refusing to fully explain, rationalize or justify Jim’s fateful jump. The sudden death of George seemed to create an empty slot which Jim filled out, a slot that was never meant for him; and in a symbolic sense, Jim the moral hero dies in that jump. Throughout the rest of the novel, the incident pursues Jim, like a brand of disgrace, a shadow, an evil curse, one from which he can never escape, no matter how far he travels; eventually, it leads to his ignoble death. The novel suggests that to believe in the Aristotelian ideal of a virtuous life ― in an irrational, contingent world ― is to set oneself up for a life marked by inevitable failure.

Conrad’s novel condemns the Aristotelian hero Jim to a life of disgrace, while celebrating an accidental hero, the French lieutenant whose ship by chance discovers the Patna after it has been abandoned by its crew. For as Marlowe, the text’s narrator, muses: “Truth shall prevail … Yes, when it gets a chance. There is a law, no doubt ― and likewise a law regulates your luck in the throwing of dice. It is not Justice the servant of men, but accident, hazard, Fortune ― the ally of patient Time ― that holds an even and scrupulous balance.”

Conrad’s Jim ― the character who does not know who he really is until confronting the ultimate choice between virtue or vice ― resembles most of us, perhaps a bit too much; that is why we continually yearn for the wisdom of morally superior beings, like Batman and Spider-Man: beings stripped of the excessive humanness that makes Jim, and the world he inhabits, so familiar. 

By Eli Park Sorensen 

Eli Park Sorensen is an assistant professor in the College of Liberal Studies at Seoul National University. He specializes in comparative literature, postcolonial thought and cultural studies. ― Ed.