Lost Horizon

“Conway was not bothering. He was used to air travel, and took things for granted. Besides, there was nothing particular he was eager to do when he got to Peshawar, and no one particular he was eager to see; so it was a matter of complete indifference to him whether the journey took four hours or six. He was unmarried; there would be no tender greeting on arrival. He had friends, and a few of them would probably take him to the club and stand him drinks; it was a pleasant prospect, but not one to sigh for in anticipation.”

This passage highlights Conway’s genuine dispassion, a character trait in which he lacks attachments to the world, as well as the desire to form such attachments. Instead, he thinks of things in terms of pleasantness, taking various elements of life for granted until they prove to be unpleasant. Conway is not concerned with the pilot’s unusual behavior until he realizes that they do not know where they are being taken, at which point he spurs to action, taking charge of the passengers.

“Conway was not apt to be easily impressed, and as a rule he did not care for ‘views,’ especially the more famous ones for which thoughtful municipalities provide garden seats. Once, on being taken to Tiger Hill, near Darjeeling, to watch the sunrise upon Everest, he had found the highest mountain in the world a definite disappointment. But this fearsome spectacle beyond the windowpane was of different caliber; it had no air of posing to be admired. There was something raw and monstrous about those uncompromising ice cliffs, and a certain sublime impertinence in approaching them thus. He pondered, envisioning maps, calculating distances, estimating times and speeds.”

Another component, narratively, of Conway’s dispassion is that it emphasizes the importance of moments like sighting the Tibetan mountain range. The fact that Conway is so rarely impressed tells the reader that these mountains are exceptional. His commentary on the “raw” and “monstrous” nature of the range reflects imperialist thought regarding “virgin” land, which has not been surmounted by industrialism. The mountains, like the people who live in them, are foreign to Conway, and, as Indigenous peoples, they are “raw” and “monstrous” by virtue of living outside the European sphere of influence.

“Conway did not offer his opinion. The will of God or the lunacy of man—it seemed to him that you could take your choice, if you wanted a good enough reason for most things. Or, alternatively (and he thought of it as he contemplated the small orderliness of the cabin against the window background of such frantic natural scenery), the will of man and the lunacy of God. It must be satisfying to be quite certain which way to look at it.”

Conway’s abstract, non-religious perception of chance, lunacy, and fate underlies his dispassion and stands in contrast to Brinklow’s unwavering religious faith. Somewhat sarcastically, he notes that it would be more satisfying to have her sense of certainty, suggesting that such a rigid worldview is a source of emotional comfort in an uncertain and often chaotic world.

“She went on: ‘I once knew a missionary who had been to Tibet. He said the Tibetans were very odd people. They believe we are descended from monkeys.’ ‘Real smart of ‘em.’ ‘Oh, dear, no, I don’t mean in the modern way. They’ve had the belief for hundreds of years, it’s only one of their superstitions. Of course I’m against all of it myself, and I think Darwin was far worse than any Tibetan. I take my stand on the Bible.’ ‘Fundamentalist, I suppose?’ But Miss Brinklow did not appear to understand the term.”

Brinklow denies any connection between the supposed Tibetan belief that humans descended from monkeys and Darwin’s theory of evolution. She rejects both beliefs as contradicting the Bible, which in her mind is the only source of truth.

“Barnard nodded. ‘It looks as if we’re darned lucky, then, if this lamasery is just around the corner.’ ‘Comparatively lucky, maybe,’ agreed Conway. ‘After all, we’ve no food, and as you can see for yourselves, the country isn’t the kind it would be easy to live on. In a few hours we shall all be famished. And then tonight, if we were to stay here, we should have to face the wind and the cold again. It’s not a pleasant prospect. Our only chance, it seems to me, is to find some other human beings, and where else should we begin looking for them except where we’ve been told they exist?’ ‘And what if it’s a trap?’ asked Mallinson, but Bernard supplied an answer. ‘A nice warm trap,’ he said, ‘with a piece of cheese in it, would suit me down to the ground.’”

Conway’s analysis of the situation is direct and reasonable, while Barnard and Mallinson present two contrasting perspectives with different motivations. Barnard cares little for logic, preferring instead to choose any path that leads to comfort, even if only temporary. Mallinson fears the Indigenous people of the area, so he prefers to suffer a known issue than to approach a potential unknown. In each case, Conway shows the power of dispassion in drawing his conclusion to go to Shangri-La, while the other two men seem distracted by fears of suffering.

“Mallinson, who had been somberly enduring these pleasantries, now interposed with something of the shrill acerbity of the barrack square. ‘Our stay won’t be long,’ he announced curtly. ‘We shall pay for anything we have, and we should like to hire some of your men to help us on our journey back. We want to return to civilization as soon as possible.’ ‘And are you so very certain that you are away from it?’”

Mallinson’s air of military authority indicates his perceived position of superiority relative to the Chinese and Tibetan men who come to help him. His insistence that they are far from civilization betrays a prejudiced view of civilization as existing exclusively in the urban areas of Europe. Chang’s response calls that view into question.

“Conway said quietly, ‘If you’d had all the experiences I’ve had, you’d know that there are times in life when the most comfortable thing is to do nothing at all. Things happen to you and you just let them happen. The war was rather like that. One is fortunate if, as on this occasion, a touch of novelty seasons the unpleasantness.’ ‘You’re too confoundedly philosophic for me. That wasn’t your mood during the trouble at Baskul.’ ‘Of course not, because then there was a chance that I could alter events by my own actions. But now, for the moment at least, there’s no such chance. We’re here because we’re here, if you want a reason. I’ve usually found it a soothing one.’”

Conway’s personal philosophy, which most commonly relies on taking the easiest path in any given situation, is outlined here. When Mallinson tries to contradict Conway’s view with the Baskul incident, Conway explains that some situations require action, and he is willing to take action when it is necessary. Otherwise, he does not see the point in expending energy, as Mallinson does with complaining and Brinklow with passing judgment, when no positive outcome can be expected.

“If I were to put it into a very few words, my dear sir, I should say that our prevalent belief is in moderation. We inculcate the virtue of avoiding excess of all kinds—even including, if you will pardon the paradox, excess of virtue itself. In the valley which you have seen, and in which there are several thousand inhabitants living under the control of our order, we have found that the principle makes for a considerable degree of happiness. We rule with moderate strictness, and in return we are satisfied with moderate obedience. And I think I can claim that our people are moderately sober, moderately chaste, and moderately honest.”

The belief system at Shangri-La seems distinct from religion and instead focuses on the best way to live and govern. As Chang says, moderate governance expects moderate obedience, and the result is that everyone is satisfied with the moderation they practice. This view is well suited to Conway’s disposition, and it explains why characters like Mallinson and Brinklow feel out of place when they cannot exert excess authority or control over their situation.

“Conway had no race or color prejudice, and it was an affectation for him to pretend, as he sometimes did in clubs and first-class railway carriages, that he set any particular store on the ‘whiteness’ of a lobster-red face under a topee. It saved trouble to let it be so assumed, especially in India, and Conway was a conscientious trouble-saver. But in China it had been less necessary; he had had many Chinese friends, and it had never occurred to him to treat them as inferiors. Hence, in his intercourse with Chang, he was sufficiently unpreoccupied to see in him a mannered old gentleman who might not be entirely trustworthy, but who was certainly of high intelligence. Mallinson, on the other hand, tended to regard him through the bars of an imaginary cage; Miss Brinklow was sharp and sprightly, as with the heathen in his blindness; while Barnard’s wise-cracking bonhomie was of the kind he would have cultivated with a butler.”

White supremacy is the common value of Conway’s era and nationality, and as a social expedient, he allows other white people to believe that he, too, is racist. His conclusions regarding the other members of his party show how each of them possesses similar prejudices against Asian peoples, viewing them as less valuable or competent.

“He gazed over the edge into the blue-black emptiness. The drop was phantasmal; perhaps as much as a mile. He wondered if he would be allowed to descend it and inspect the valley civilization that had been talked of. The notion of this strange culture pocket, hidden amongst unknown ranges, and ruled over by some vague kind of theocracy, interested him as a student of history, apart from the curious though perhaps related secrets of the lamasery.”

This passage highlights the elegant isolation Hilton paints for Shangri-La and the valley. The combination of beauty, danger, freedom, and loneliness emphasizes the unique conditions under which the valley society develops. Conway is not entirely accurate in describing the valley as a “strange culture pocket,” as he finds out that Shangri-La possesses many cultural artifacts from across the world, indicating that the valley civilization is well-informed of the societal and cultural norms outside the mountain range.

“‘I think,’ said Conway, ‘if I were a missionary I’d choose this rather than quite a lot of other places.’ ‘In that case,’ snapped Miss Brinklow, ‘there would be no merit in it, obviously.’ ‘But I wasn’t thinking of merit.’ ‘More’s the pity, then. There’s no good in doing a thing because you like doing it. Look at these people here!’ ‘They all seem very happy.’ ‘Exactly,’ she answered with a touch of fierceness.”

Conway, who sees Shangri-La and the valley as pleasant, thinks that much like his own position as a diplomat, it would be a good area to be assigned for work. Brinklow, though, insists that nothing enjoyable is worth doing, which lends considerable insight into Brinklow as a kind of foil to Conway. Where Conway prioritizes comfort above anything else, Brinklow actually prioritizes discomfort, which, to her, indicates progress and development. In fact, the happiness of the people in the valley, to Brinklow, indicates that it is a failed society, rather than a successful one.

“As for Bryant, whom he decided he would still think of and address as Barnard, the question of his exploits and identity faded instantly into the background, save for a single phrase of his—‘the whole game’s going to pieces.’ Conway found himself remembering and echoing it with a wider significance than the American had probably intended; he felt it to be true of more than American banking and trust-company management. It fitted Baskul and Delhi and London, war-making and empire-building, consulates and trade concessions and dinner parties at Government House; there was a reek of dissolution over all that recollected world, and Barnard’s cropper had only, perhaps, been better dramatized than his own. The whole game was doubtless going to pieces, but fortunately the players were not as a rule put on trial for the pieces they had failed to save. In that respect financiers were unlucky.”

Conway ruminates on the general sense of collapse that characterizes the interwar period, as the British Empire is in decline, the world economy is in the early stages of the Great Depression, and tensions in Europe are already indicating the possibility of a second World War. Between these, Conway notes how political “games” do not often hold individuals responsible, such as a general overseeing a lost battle, but he also hits at an important facet of complications in the name of progress, in which the people creating complications are rarely held accountable for their actions. Wars and colonization are complications for both the imperial side and the colonized cultures, and they are often undertaken in the name of progress without consideration of the devastation they might bring.

“Quickly he recovered health and began to preach his mission. The people were Buddhists, but willing to hear him, and he had considerable success. There was an ancient lamasery existing then on this same mountain shelf, but it was in a state of decay both physical and spiritual, and as the Capuchin’s harvest increased, he conceived the idea of setting up on the same magnificent site a Christian monastery. Under his surveillance the old buildings were repaired and largely reconstructed, and he himself began to live here in the year 1734, when he was fifty-three years of age.”

This passage sets up the white savior narrative of Perrault’s “founding” of Shangri-La, in which a white man stumbles into a native community, which is in disrepair due to the supposed flaws of the Indigenous peoples or their culture, and, as an allegedly superior being, the white man resolves the issues of the Indigenous population and improves their lives immeasurably. This passage is then supported by the dominance of “Nordic and Latin European” men who continue to improve the conditions in the Karakal valley, which supports a narrative of white supremacy.

“The years will come and go, and you will pass from fleshly enjoyments into austerer but no less satisfying realms; you may lose the keenness of muscle and appetite, but there will be gain to match your loss; you will achieve calmness and profundity, ripeness and wisdom, and the clear enchantment of memory. And, most precious of all, you will have Time—that rare and lovely gift that your Western countries have lost the more they have pursued it.”

The High Lama’s outline of the process of aging in Shangri-La provides a summary of the kind of happiness through simplicity that the novel espouses in contrast to the physical and social progresses typically idealized in industrial societies. The enjoyment of the flesh and strength of muscles refers to pleasures like eating and drinking but also to work, exercise, and exertion, which are usually applauded by characters like Brinklow, Mallinson, and Barnard. Conway, however, is already of the natural disposition to enjoy the offerings of Shangri-La, highlighting his inclination toward simplicity and happiness.

“We do not follow an idle experiment, a mere whimsy. We have a dream and a vision. It is a vision that first appeared to old Perrault when he lay dying in this room in the year 1789. He looked back then on his long life, as I have already told you, and it seemed to him that all the loveliest things were transient and perishable, and that war, lust, and brutality might someday crush them until there were no more left in the world. He remembered sights he had seen with his own eyes, and with his mind he pictured others; he saw the nations strengthening, not in wisdom, but in vulgar passions and the will to destroy; he saw their machine power multiplying until a single-weaponed man might have matched a whole army of the Grand Monarque. And he perceived that when they had filled the land and sea with ruin, they would take to the air…Can you say that his vision was untrue?”

The High Lama’s plan for Shangri-La is essentially to wait out the wars of other regions and peoples, safeguarding the treasures and people taken in by the Karakal valley for use after the others have exhausted themselves. The High Lama retains the Christian belief that the meek shall inherit the earth, and he sees the large-scale warfare of the early 20th century, embodied in WWI, as a signal that the time for this inheritance is coming quickly. The premise that Perrault saw these events at the end of the 18th century speaks to his supposed supernatural powers, as well as to the general mysticism of Shangri-La.

“He needed equanimity, if only to accommodate himself to the double life he was compelled to lead. Thenceforward, with his fellow exiles, he lived in a world conditioned by the arrival of porters and a return to India; at all other times the horizon lifted like a curtain; time expanded and space contracted and the name Blue Moon took on a symbolic meaning, as if the future, so delicately plausible, were a kind that might happen once in a blue moon only. Sometimes he wondered which of his two lives were the more real, but the problem was not pressing; and again he was reminded of the War, for during heavy bombardments he had had the same comforting sensation that he had many lives, only one of which could be claimed by death.”

What Conway describes, here, is basically compartmentalizing for the sake of calm, separating the roles of his life into distinct categories of experience, choosing to think of one compartment rather than another when he becomes uncomfortable. In Shangri-La, as during the war, he sees himself as an exile or soldier, but he retains a view of a “true” self that is distinct from either. It is this “true” self that he uses to maintain a sense of collectedness and peace, which he can then use to actively resolve situations as they arise. Conway’s process of compartmentalization seems to be the key to his genuine dispassion, and it is likely why the lamas have taken a keen interest in him.

“At this point the tea bowls were brought in, and talk became less serious between sips of the scented liquid. It was an apt convention, enabling the verbal flow to acquire a touch of that almost frivolous fragrance, and Conway was responsive. When the High Lama asked him whether Shangri-La was not unique in his experience, and if the Western world could offer anything in the least like it, he answered with a smile: ‘Well, yes—to be quite frank, it reminds me very slightly of Oxford, where I used to lecture. The scenery there is not so good, but the subjects of study are often just as impractical, and though even the oldest of the dons is not quite so old, they appear to age in a somewhat similar way.’”

Though Conway is joking here, he opens the discussion on whether Shangri-La is inherently unique beyond its capacity to extend human life. As Conway notes, universities in other countries often boast collections of artifacts and people of great import and intelligence, as well as a focus on progressing the mind rather than industry. The reference to Oxford, specifically, is likely a reference to fields of study like classics, in which the focus is on Latin, which is a dead language, or ancient Greek, which is no longer used, much as the studies at Shangri-La are destined to remain within the lamasery.

“Not particularly so. I was excited and suicidal and scared and reckless and sometimes in a tearing rage—like a few million others, in fact. I got mad drunk and killed and lechered in great style. It was the self-abuse of all one’s emotions, and one came through it, if one did at all, with a sense of almighty boredom and fretfulness. That’s what made the years afterwards so difficult. Don’t think I’m posing myself too tragically—I’ve had pretty fair luck since, on the whole. But it’s been rather like being in a school where there’s a bad headmaster—plenty of fun to be got if you feel like it, but nerve-racking off and on, and not really very satisfactory. I think I found that out rather more than most people.”

Conway’s account of the war, predictably, is fraught with terror and violence, but what is most interesting is Conway’s deflection into the impersonal “one” when describing his emotions. Rather than specifying his own experience, he broadens the discussion to “one,” meaning any given soldier, but at the end of the passage, he re-specifies himself, saying he experienced these things “more than most people.” Through the lens of shellshock and PTSD, this passage allows the entire novel to be reframed as an allegory for the struggles of soldiers after war who cannot seem to find peace in the past or present.

“Conway, whom experience had taught that rudeness is by no means a guarantee of good faith, was even less inclined to regard a well-turned phrase as a proof of insincerity. He liked the mannered, leisurely atmosphere in which talk was an accomplishment, not a mere habit. And he liked to realize that the idlest things could now be freed from the curse of time-wasting, and the frailest dreams receive the welcome of the mind. Shangri-La was always tranquil, yet always a hive of unpursuing occupations; the lamas lived as if indeed they had time on their hands, but time that was scarcely a featherweight.”

This passage places the social and professional realms of the Eurocentric world against the more austere practices of asceticism, though Shangri-La is explicitly not ascetic. Essentially, Conway is tired of fruitless conversations and navigating the political and social landscapes of English society, preferring the escapism offered by an isolated and peaceful scene like the Karakal valley. Whether the extended time frame of life at Shangri-La is valid or not, there is still a feeling of timelessness in which Conway is not rushed or forced into anything.

“The parallel is not quite exact. For those Dark Ages were not really so very dark—they were full of flickering lanterns, and even if the light had gone out of Europe altogether, there were other rays, literally from China and Peru, at which it could have been rekindled. But the Dark Ages that are to come will cover the whole world in a single pall; there will be neither escape nor sanctuary, save such as are too secret to be found or too humble to be noticed. And Shangri-La may hope to be both of these. The airman bearing loads of death to the great cities will not pass our way, and if by change he should, he may not consider us worth a bomb.”

The High Lama acknowledges, here, that European history is not the same as world history, noting how the Dark Ages were only “dark” for Europe, while the rest of the world, specifically the Chinese and Incan civilizations, continued to progress as usual. In part, this plethora of societies is what makes the upcoming war so terrifying. Those prior wars were restricted to a European stage, whereas, with the empire building of the 19th and early 20th centuries, future wars threaten to involve all corners of the world. The isolation and humility of Shangri-La, then, will hopefully protect it from involvement in such conflicts.

“‘Look here, Conway, it’s got on your nerves, this place, and I really don’t wonder at it. Pack up your things and let’s quit. We’ll finish this argument a month or two hence after a jolly little dinner at Maiden’s.’ Conway answered quietly: ‘I’ve no desire to go back to that life at all.’ ‘What life?’ ‘The life you’re thinking of…dinners…dances…polo…and all that…’ ‘But I never said anything about dances and polo! Anyhow, what’s wrong with them? D’you mean that you’re not coming with me? You’re going to stay here like the other two? Then at least you shan’t stop me from clearing out of it!’”

Though Mallinson is suggesting dinner, that dinner reminds Conway of all the obligations he has in English society, such as dances and polos. Mallinson, who sees these elements as natural components in “civilized” life, does not understand the broader framework of the “life” Conway wants to avoid. Critically, Mallinson then turns the conversation to the supposition that Conway, disapproving of that life, would stop Mallinson from returning to it, but this, too, is an aspect of imperial ideology, in which everyone must behave as the colonizer does. Seeing Conway as a fellow colonizer, Mallinson is immediately afraid that Conway will try to force his perspective on Mallinson.

“Conway went to the balcony and gazed at the dazzling plume of Karakal; the moon was riding high in a waveless ocean. It came to him that a dream had dissolved, like all too lovely things, at the first touch of reality; that the whole world’s future, weighed in the balance against youth and love, would be light as air. And he knew, too, that his mind dwelt in a world of its own, Shangri-La in microcosm, and that this world also was in peril. For even as he nerved himself, he saw the corridors of his imagination twist and strain under impact; the pavilions were toppling; all was about to be in ruins. He was only partly unhappy, but he was infinitely and rather sadly perplexed. He did not know whether he had been mad and was now sane, or had been sane for a time and now mad again.”

Karakal, as a symbol of peace and tranquility, is shrouded in a storm, representing Mallinson’s skepticism as a threat to Conway’s peace. The question of whether Conway was sane at Shangri-La likewise reflects his experience in the war, where he was pushed to violence by necessity, just as he now feels pushed to diplomacy by necessity. The idea that Shangri-La exists as a microcosm in his mind furthers the psychoanalytic reading of the text as an allegory for overcoming PTSD, and it also promotes the idea that peace and happiness are internal, reliant only on the perspective of the person experiencing them.

“Then I asked him what he knew about Tibetan lamaseries—he’d been in the country several times—and he gave me just the usual accounts that one can read in all the book. They weren’t beautiful places, he assured me, and the monks in them were generally corrupt and dirty. ‘Do they live long?’ I asked, and he said, yes, they often did, if they didn’t die of some filthy disease. Then I went boldly to the point and asked if he’d ever heard legends of extreme longevity among the lamas. ‘Heaps of them,’ he answered: ‘it’s one of the stock yarns you hear everywhere, but you can’t verify them. You’re told that some foul-looking creature had been walled up in a cell for a hundred years, and he certainly looks as if he might have been, but of course you can’t demand his birth certificate.’”

The American says that he avoids lamaseries, meaning he likely bases these racist stereotypes off a single experience or simply secondhand information. The mention of a birth certificate sets up a specific dynamic in which the evidence of mysticism is marked as separate from European rationalism, in which documentation would be sufficient but is likely absent from mystic life.