Joseph Conrad
Joseph Conrad
Joseph Conradwas a Polish-British writer regarded as one of the greatest novelists to write in the English language. He joined the British merchant marine in 1878, and was granted British nationality in 1886. Though he did not speak English fluently until he was in his twenties, he was a master prose stylist who brought a non-English sensibility into English literature. He wrote stories and novels, many with a nautical setting, that depict trials of the human spirit in the midst...
NationalityPolish
ProfessionNovelist
Date of Birth3 December 1857
CountryPoland
Vanity plays lurid tricks with our memory.
And this also," said Marlow suddenly, "has been one of the dark places of the earth.
That faculty of beholding at a hint the face of his desire and the shape of his dream, without which the earth would know no lover and no adventurer.
It is when we try to grapple with another man's intimate need that we perceive how incomprehensible, wavering, and misty are the beings that share with us the sight of the stars and the warmth of the sun.
Don't you forget what's divine in the Russian soul and that's resignation.
Going home must be like going to render an account.
The discovery of America was the occasion of the greatest outburst of cruelty and reckless greed known in history.
The conquest of the earth... is not a pretty thing when you look into it too much. What redeems it is the idea only... not a sentimental pretence but an idea.
Analytical philosophy was very interesting. It always struck me as being very interesting and full of tremendous intellectual curiosities. It is wonderful to see the mind at work in such an intense manner, but, for me, it was still too far removed from my own issues.
Criticism, that fine flower of personal expression in the garden of letters.
As in political so in literary action a man wins friends for himself mostly by the passion of his prejudices and the consistent narrowness of his outlook.
This magnificent butterfly finds a little heap of dirt and sits still on it; but man will never on his heap of mud keep still.
There is a taint of death, a flavour of mortality in lies...
Kisses are the remnants of paradise.