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
I had ambition not only to go farther than any man had ever been before, but as far as it was possible for a man to go.
What all men are really after is some form, or perhaps only some formula, of peace.
Words, as is well known, are great foes of reality
Above all, we must forgive the unhappy souls who have elected to make the pilgrimage on foot, who skirt the shore and look uncomprehendingly upon the horror of the struggle, the joy of victory, the profound hopelessness of the vanquished
A work that aspires, however humbly, to the condition of art should carry its justification in every line.
A word carries far - very far - deals destruction through time as the bullets go flying through space.
All ambitions are lawful except those which climb upward upon the miseries and credulities of mankind
You shall judge of a man by his foes as well as by his friends.
This could have occurred nowhere but in England, where men and sea interpenetrate, so to speak.
It is not Justice the servant of men, but accident, hazard, Fortune--the ally of patient Time--that holds an even and scrupulous balance.
Remember, Razumov, that women, children, and revolutionists hate irony, which is the negation of all saving instincts, of all faith, of all devotion, of all action.
He was obeyed, yet he inspired neither love nor fear, nor even respect. He inspired uneasiness. That was it!
His eyes were naturally heavy; he had an air of having wallowed, fully dressed, all day on an unmade bed.
I remember my youth and the feeling that will never come back any more --the feeling that I could last for ever, outlast the sea, the earth, and all men; the deceitful feeling that lures us on to joys, to perils, to love, to vain effort --to death; the triumphant conviction of strength, the heat of life in the handful of dust, the glow in the heart that with every year grows dim, grows cold, grows small, and expires --and expires, too soon, too soon --before life itself.