I have recently re-read Conrad's "Nostromo". To myself I always think of it as "Higuerota", the said mountain being the principal personage in the novel. I will admit frankly that I found it slow to start, which only means that I had not yet adjusted myself to the pace of Conrad's majestic prose. Once settled it became apparent to me that I was reading the finest novel of this generation, bar none. I have always asserted the Russian novelists to be supreme masters of the form, but now I am in doubt. "Nostromo" is peerless, the Higuerota among novels. There is no more to be said.An ass of my acquaintance warned me that the latter half of "Under Western Eyes" was inferior to the beginning, and I have heard the opinion from others. It is not true.The whole book is superb. And as for the 'eastern' novels, "Almayer's Folly", "An Outcast of the Islands", "Lord Jim" and "Victory", no fault is to be found by me; they convey the sensitive reader directly to that place of overpowering heat, timeless forest, and inscrutable natives.
I hear that Conrad is not in good health. I think of writing to him but am held back by silly notions of conceivable impertinence. It seems to me that if I could convey to him the passionate comprehension which some of us have for his work, it would do him good. Probably only another creative artist can understand a creative artist, which limits public comprehension rather severely. I would like to acquaint him with my state of mind - intense satisfaction in seeing a thing truly done, mixed with anger because I know I can never do it as well myself.
It occurs to me that when we move from here, that is when our house in Essex is ready for occupation, then I might reasonably write to Conrad, express my admiration, and invite him to visit. What talks we might have. Well worth the risk of seeming impertinent.
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