I just finished reading Joseph Conrad's The Secret Agent. I expected a lot from the novel. First, Joseph Conrad is considered to be a master author, which is why just about every school kid has to read Heart of Darkness. Second, this novel inspired Ted Kaczynski, so it would be kind of cool to read to know what made the guy tick.
Man, did that book suck! Well, OK, it wasn't completely awful, but 2/3 of the book stunk. I liked the end, but it drug on and on forever. SUM UP, CONRAD!!! I don't feel like I would have missed anything by not reading which is how I normally judge a book.
But really disappointed me most about this was that I was lied to by an historian. How? Well, this historian (whose name I can't remember) wrote an excellent history of Poland in which he argued that Poland has an underrated literary tradition. He talked about how good Conrad's works are, which I now don't believe to be true given how generally crappy The Secret Agent was. So, thanks for being a lying turd, historian.
The rest of Poland's authors and poets probably suck ass, too. In fact, I think that the only great Polish author is Joey Polanski. 700 years of being a country and all you do is produce Joey, WOO-HOO! So, salut, Poland, salut!!!
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14 comments:
So did it inspire Ted like The White Album inspired Charlie?
Yeah, Ted patterned himself after The Professor in the novel. The Professor was a bomb-maker who lived a very, very minimalist lifestyle.
Well, there's Stanislaw Jerzy
Lec, and while I've never actually read any of his books, he gives great quote:
"All is in the hands of man. Therefore you should wash them often."
"There were grammatical errors even in his silence."
"'I will just wag my finger at him', he said, putting it on the
trigger."
"Every now and then you meet a man whose ignorance is encyclopedic."
"A sodomite got very excited looking at a zoology text. Does this make it pornography?"
"At the beginning there was the Word - at the end just the Cliche."
I've had no use for Poland ever since they produced my wife The Polish American Princess. Any country that can do that to the world needs to be nuked.
I saw old crazy Ted once. They were taking him out of county jail and heading to the federal court house with him. He reminded me a lot of Charlie Manson. Made me want to carve a swastika into his forehead.
(Phoebe never ceases to amaze me!)
What does it say on the bottom of a Coke bottle in Poland?
Open other end.
Is 'drug' a word? I don't think it is. (I mean other than in the "work would be so much better if i were on drugs" sense)
C.Rag:
Did you think that one up all by yourself?
AngryMan,
You can't read. You just pretend to read.
LONG LIVE THE REVOLUTION!
Cash:
At least I have opposable thumbs.
Oh, and that last comment was dictated, not typed.
AngryMan,
You shave your balls on a daily basis, you sick Hu-Man.
LONG LIVE THE REVOLUTION!
Fans o modrn novels will probly find virtualy ALL of Conrads work disappointin. His style is plodding, and th action is always subtle & undrstatd.
Conrad is my favotit authr, and not cause hes a polack. I always found him difficult to read, but th difficulty always seemd, somhow, "werf th effort" (unlike, say, readin Melville).
The Secret Agent does NOT suck. Its subtle & undrstatd, like virtualy ALL o Conrads work.
Also, it cntains a pair o paragraffs that are among the best I evr read in ANY work o fiction:
She started forward at once, as if she were still a loyal woman bound to that man by an unbroken contract. Her right hand skimmed slightly the end of the table, and when she had passed on towards the sofa the carving knife had vanished without the slightest sound from the side of the dish. Mr. Verloc heard the creaky plank in the floor, and was content. He waited. Mrs. Verloc was coming. As if the homeless soul of Stevie had flown for shelter straight to the breast of his sister, guardian, and protector, the resemblance of her face with that of her brother grew at every step, even to the droop of the lower lip, even to the slight divergence of the eyes. But Mr. Verloc did not see that. He was lying on his back and staring upwards. He saw partly on the ceiling and partly on the wall the moving shadow of an arm with a clenched hand holding a carving knife. It flickered up and down. Its movements were leisurely. They were leisurely enough for Mr. Verloc to recognize the limb and the weapon.
They were leisurely enough for him to take in the full meaning of the portent, and to taste the flavour of death rising in his gorge. His wife had gone raving mad -- murdering mad. They were leisurely enough for the first paralyzing effect of this discovery to pass away before a resolute determination to come out victorious from the ghastly struggle with that armed lunatic. They were leisurely enough for Mr. Verloc to elaborate a plan of defense involving a dash behind the table, and the felling of the woman to the ground with a heavy wooden chair. But they were not leisurely enough to allow Mr. Verloc the time to move either hand or foot. The knife was already planted in his breast. It met no resistance on its way. Hazard has such accuracies. Into that plunging blow, delivered over the side of the couch, Mrs. Verloc had put all of the inheritance of her immemorial and obscure descent, the simple ferocity of the age of caverns, and the unbalanced nervous fury of the age of bar-rooms. Mr. Verloc, the Secret Agent, turned slightly on his side with the force of a blow, expired without stirring a limb, in the muttered sound of the word "Don't" by way of protest.
When I read that fer th first time, I literaly GASPd. Em paragraffs, in my opinion, is enough t make readin that book werfwhile.
Read it, was bored, you're an idiot.
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