My task, which I am trying to achieve is, by the power of the written word, to make you hear, to make you feel–it is, before all, to make you see.
JOSEPH CONRADMy task, which I am trying to achieve is, by the power of the written word, to make you hear, to make you feel–it is, before all, to make you see.
JOSEPH CONRADGoing home must be like going to render an account.
JOSEPH CONRADTo be busy with material affairs is the best preservative against reflection, fears, doubts, all these things which stand in the way of achievement. I suppose a fellow proposing to cut his throat would experience a sort of relief while occupied in stropping his razor carefully.
JOSEPH CONRADIf you don’t make mistakes, you don’t make anything .
JOSEPH CONRADYou 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.
JOSEPH CONRADIn order to move others deeply we must deliberately allow ourselves to be carried away beyond the bounds of our normal sensibility.
JOSEPH CONRADEverything belonged to him–but that was a trifle. The thing to know was what he belonged to, how many powers of darkness claimed him for their own.
JOSEPH CONRADI like what is in the work — the chance to find yourself.
JOSEPH CONRADAny work that aspires, however humbly, to the condition of art should carry its justification in every line.
JOSEPH CONRADA writer without interest or sympathy for the foibles of his fellow man is not conceivable as a writer.
JOSEPH CONRADI don’t like work but I like what is in work – the chance to find yourself. Your own reality – for yourself, not for others – which no other man can ever know.
JOSEPH CONRADVanity plays lurid tricks with our memory, and the truth of every passion wants some pretence to make it live.
JOSEPH CONRADIt is respectable to have no illusions, and safe, and profitable and dull.
JOSEPH CONRADThere is no credulity so eager and blind as the credulity of covetousness, which, in its universal extent, measures the moral misery and the intellectual destitution of mankind.
JOSEPH CONRADReality, as usual, beats fiction out of sight.
JOSEPH CONRADHistory 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