Few men realize that their life, the very essence of their character, their capabilities and their audacities, are only the expression of their belief in the safety of their surroundings.
JOSEPH CONRADThe human heart is vast enough to contain all the world.
More Joseph Conrad Quotes
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I always went my own road and on my own legs where I had a mind to go.
JOSEPH CONRAD -
It is not the clear-sighted who rule the world. Great achievements are accomplished in a blessed, warm fog.
JOSEPH CONRAD -
You know I hate, detest, and can’t bear a lie, not because I am straighter than the rest of us, but simply because it appals me. There is a taint of death, a flavour of mortality in lies – which is exactly what I hate and detest in the world – what I want to forget.
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Follow your bliss. Find where it is and don’t be afraid to follow it.
JOSEPH CONRAD -
All a man can betray is his conscience.
JOSEPH CONRAD -
Gossip is what no one claims to like, but everybody enjoys.
JOSEPH CONRAD -
Art is long and life is short, and success is very far off.
JOSEPH CONRAD -
The sea – this truth must be confessed – has no generosity. No display of manly qualities – courage, hardihood, endurance, faithfulness – has ever been known to touch its irresponsible consciousness of power.
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Vanity plays lurid tricks with our memory, and the truth of every passion wants some pretence to make it live.
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All roads are long which lead to one’s heart’s desire.
JOSEPH CONRAD -
A certain simplicity of thought is common to serene souls at both ends of the social scale.
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All creative art is magic, is evocation of the unseen in forms persuasive, enlightening, familiar and surprising.
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It is my belief no man ever understands quite his own artful dodges to escape from the grim shadow of self knowledge.
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History repeats itself, but the special call of an art which has passed away is never reproduced. It is as utterly gone out of the world as the song of a destroyed wild bird.
JOSEPH CONRAD -
It would take too long to explain the intimate alliance of contradictions in human nature which makes love itself wear at times the desperate shape of betrayal. And perhaps there is no possible explanation.
JOSEPH CONRAD