The Secret Agent
The Secret Agent: A Simple Tale is a novel by Joseph Conrad, first published in 1907. The story is set in London in 1886 and deals with Mr. Adolf Verloc and his work as a spy for an unnamed country (presumably Russia). The Secret Agent is one of Conrad's later political novels in which he moved away from his former tales of seafaring. The novel is dedicated to H. G. Wells and deals broadly with anarchism, espionage, and terrorism. It also deals with exploitation of the vulnerable in Verloc's relationship with his brother-in-law Stevie, who has an intellectual disability. Conrad’s gloomy portrait of London depicted in the novel was influenced by Charles Dickens’ Bleak House. )
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What Hacker News says
- I did. That's true. I said that someone who murders to call attention to his writing is not worth reading. Moreover, that there is nothing to the man. When Hinkley shot Reagan to impress Jodie Foster, I don't think she was impressed.
Now as to your question, I didn't judge his writing; I judged him. Terrorists who murder for acclaim aren't necessarily the most insightful writers cuz like if they were, they wouldn't need to murder.
It's apparent that you somehow think there is value or merit to his writing and by extension, him. Then that would be your task, to show that. I don't need to prove the negative. You need to show this great idea that Mr. Kaczynski proffered.
Cuz like I'm not seeing it.
BTW, if by the book you meant Conrad's The Secret Agent, no I didn't know the book. Conrad is a great writer but this isn't his best which to me would be Heart of Darkness. It's still worth a read, irrespective of Kaczynski.
- What the hell. Here's my list of literature everyone should at least try (in no particular order):
Homer: both the Iliad and Odyssey
Sophocles: Oedipus the King (read it - far better than you might think)
Plato: The Apology of Socrates
Sappho's fragmentary poems (the translation by Anne Carson titled If not, winter is especially good)
Dante: Inferno
Shakespeare: at least one tragedy, one history, one comedy and one of the final "problem plays"
John Donne: a bunch but if none else Elegy XIX To His Mistress Going to Bed
Philip Larkin: he didn't write much; read the complete poems (if nothing else, look at "Born yesterday")
T.S. Eliot: "The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock", "Return of the Magi", "Hollow men"
Ernest Hemmingway: A Clean Well-Lighted Place
Herman Melville: Bartleby, the Scrivener
Joseph Conrad: Heart of Darkness and The Secret Agent
Gustave Flaubert: Madame Bovary
George Orwell: Any and all of the essays, but especially "Shooting an elephant" and "A hanging"
Stendahl: Red and Black
James Joyce: A Portrait of The Artist as a Young Man
Andre Dumas: The Three Musketeers
Samuel Beckett: Waiting for Godot
Tom Stoppard: Rosencrantz and Guildenstern are Dead
I'll shut up, except to say that although I agree with some of the people on the thread that reading "great books" just because they're considered great is stupid, these books were all a joy. I remember them each pretty happily and return to a few of them now and again and just browse through for awhile. Some "great" books really are great, and if you're reading for yourself (not as a forced assignment), they're often well worth the effort (because, yes, none of them reads like a magazine article).
- Reminds me of this bit in Joseph Conrad’s “The Secret Agent” about London’s topographical mysteries:
”With a turn to the left Mr Verloc pursued his way along a narrow street by the side of a yellow wall which, for some inscrutable reason, had No. I Chesham Square written on it in black letters. Chesham Square was at least sixty yards away, and Mr Verloc, cosmopolitan enough not to be deceived by London’s topographical mysteries, held on steadily, without a sign of surprise or indignation. At last, with business-like persistency, he reached the Square, and made diagonally for the number 10. This belonged to an imposing carriage gate in a high, clean wall between two houses, of which one rationally enough bore the number 9 and the other was numbered 37; but the fact that this last belonged to Porthill Street, a street well known in the neighbourhood, was proclaimed by an inscription placed above the ground-floor windows by whatever highly efficient authority is charged with the duty of keeping track of London’s strayed houses. Why powers are not asked of Parliament (a short Act would do) for compelling those edifices to return where they belong is one of the mysteries of municipal administration. Mr Verloc did not trouble his head about it, his mission in life being the protection of the social mechanism, not its perfectionment or even its criticism.”
- Read it several years ago -- it's my favorite book. The way the story progresses from the initial setup is masterful. I'm honestly still shocked that Nostromo isn't the first book that people associate with Conrad, given that it's so much more beautiful and thematically-dense than Heart of Darkness or The Secret Agent. It's like if everyone thought Typee was Melville's best work.
- I don't think anything much has changed.
It's interesting to look at Joseph Conrad's "The Secret Agent" -- published in 1907 -- which is based on a true story (of an anarchist attack on the Greenwich Observatory in 1894). All the elements of modern "terrorism" are there back then: a half-wit dupe bomber, nutjobs with a crazy ideology (anarchism in this case), and national actors manipulating them from behind the scenes.
