Geburtsdatum | Donnerstag, 03. Dezember 1857 |
Geburtsort | Berdychiv |
Todesort | Bishopsbourne |
Sternzeichen | |
Beschreibung | Joseph Conrad (geboren als Józef Teodor Konrad Korzeniowski, polnisch: [ˈjuzɛf tɛˈɔdɔr ˈkɔnrat kɔʐɛˈɲɔfskʲi]; 3. Dezember 1857 - 3. August 1924) war ein polnisch-britischer Romancier und Kurzgeschichtenautor. Er gilt als einer der größten Schriftsteller der englischen Sprache; obwohl er bis zu seinem zwanzigsten Lebensjahr nicht fließend Englisch sprach, wurde er als meisterhafter Prosastilist angesehen, der eine nicht-englische Sensibilität in die englische Literatur einbrachte. Er schrieb Romane und Erzählungen, von denen viele in der Seefahrt angesiedelt sind und die Krisen der menschlichen Individualität inmitten einer seiner Meinung nach gleichgültigen, undurchschaubaren und amoralischen Welt schildern. |
The belief in a supernatural source of evil is not necessary men alone are quite capable of every wickedness.
Perhaps life is just that... a dream and a fear.
Going home must be like going to render an account.
Only in men's imagination does every truth find an effective and undeniable existence. Imagination, not invention, is the supreme master of art as of life.
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.
Each blade of grass has its spot on earth whence it draws its life, its strength and so is man rooted to the land from which he draws his faith together with his life.
Who knows what true loneliness is - not the conventional word but the naked terror? To the lonely themselves it wears a mask. The most miserable outcast hugs some memory or some illusion.
Woe to the man whose heart has not learned while young to hope, to love - and to put its trust in life.
How does one kill fear, I wonder? How do you shoot a specter through the heart, slash off its spectral head, take it by its spectral throat?
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.
The last thing a woman will consent to discover in a man whom she loves, or on whom she simply depends, is want of courage.
Any work that aspires, however humbly, to the condition of art should carry its justification in every line.
Being a woman is a terribly difficult task, since it consists principally in dealing with men.
