I slipped the book into my pocket. I assure you to leave off reading was like tearing myself away from the shelter of an old and solid friendship.
JOSEPH CONRADI slipped the book into my pocket. I assure you to leave off reading was like tearing myself away from the shelter of an old and solid friendship.
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 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 CONRADIt is not the clear-sighted who rule the world. Great achievements are accomplished in a blessed, warm fog.
JOSEPH CONRADIt’s only those who do nothing that make no mistakes, I suppose.
JOSEPH CONRADAny fool can carry on, but a wise man knows how to shorten sail in time.
JOSEPH CONRADWords, as is well known, are the great foes of reality.
JOSEPH CONRADIt is the mark of an inexperienced man not to believe in luck.
JOSEPH CONRADThe question is not how to get cured, but how to live.
JOSEPH CONRADHe who wants to persuade should put his trust not in the right argument, but in the right word. The power of sound has always been greater than the power of sense.
JOSEPH CONRADIt’s extraordinary how we go through life with eyes half shut, with dull ears, with dormant thoughts. Perhaps it’s just as well; and it may be that it is this very dullness that makes life to the incalculable majority so supportable and so welcome.
JOSEPH CONRADAll a man can betray is his conscience.
JOSEPH CONRADImagination, not invention, is the supreme master of art as of life.
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 CONRADIt occurred to me that my speech or my silence, indeed any action of mine, would be a mere futility.
JOSEPH CONRADVanity plays lurid tricks with our memory, and the truth of every passion wants some pretence to make it live.
JOSEPH CONRAD