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Algernon Blackwood Anthony Hope Anthony Trollope Anton Chekhov Arthur Conan Doyle Arthur Quiller-Couch Baroness Orczy Benjamin Disraeli Charles Dickens Dinah Craik E. Phillips Oppenheim Edith Wharton Elizabeth Gaskell Eugene Sue F. Marion Crawford G.A. Henty G.K. Chesterton George Gissing George Meredith Gertrude Atherton H. Rider Haggard H.G. Wells Hamlin Garland Henry James Honore de Balzac Horatio Alger Ivan Turgenev Jack London James Fenimore Cooper Joseph Conrad L. Frank Baum L.M. Montgomery Louisa May Alcott Luise Mühlbach Mrs. Humphry Ward Mrs. Oliphant P.G. Wodehouse Robert Louis Stevenson Sax Rohmer Thomas Hardy Upton Sinclair W. Somerset Maugham Walter Besant Wilkie Collins William Dean Howells William Makepeace Thackeray Brantz Mayer A.T. Mahan Adolf Hitler Agatha Christie Albert Jay Nock Alexandre Dumas Andrew Lang Ann Radcliffe Anne Brontë Anonymous Aristotle Bible Book Booker T. Washington Bram Stoker Brooks Adams Captain Russell Grenfell Cesare Lombroso Charles Callan Tansill Charles Darwin Charlotte Brontë Clark Howard Confucius David Gordon David Howden David Irving David Ray Griffin E.A. Ross Eden Phillpotts Edgar Allan Poe Edward Bellamy Edward Gibbon Elbert Hubbard Ellsworth Huntington Emile Zola Emily Brontë Evan Whitton Evelyn Dewey F. Scott Fitzgerald Fanny Burney Faustino Ballvé Felix Adler Ford Madox Ford Francis Parkman Frank Chodorov Frank Norris Frank R. Stockton Frederick Jackson Turner Friedrich A. Hayek Friedrich Engels Fyodor Dostoyevsky G.E. Mitton George Eliot George Jean Nathan Gustav Gottheil Gustave Flaubert Guy de Maupassant H.L. Mencken Hans-Hermann Hoppe Harriet Beecher Stowe Harry Elmer Barnes Heinrich Graetz Heinrich Heine Henry Adams Henry Fielding Henry Ford Henry M. Stanley Henryk Sienkiewicz Herbert Westbrook Herman Melville Hermann Hesse Herodotus Homer Hubert Howe Bancroft Hugh Lofting Isabel Paterson J.M. Barrie Jacob A. Riis James Hayden Tufts James Huneker James Joyce James Rice Jane Addams Jane Austen Jared Taylor Jefferson Davis Jeffrey Tucker John Dewey John Dos Passos John Galsworthy John Maynard Keynes John Reed John Stuart Mill John T. Flynn Jonathan Swift Jules Verne Karl Marx Kenneth Grahame Kevin Barrett Kevin MacDonald Knut Hamsun Laurence Sterne Lawrence H. White Leo Tolstoy Leon Trotsky Lewis Carroll Livy Llewellyn H. Rockwell Jr. Lord Acton Lord Dunsany Lothrop Stoddard Ludwig von Mises Lysander Spooner Marcel Proust Maria Edgeworth Maria Monk Mark Twain Mary Shelley Mary White Ovington Max Eastman Max Nordau Maxim Gorky Miguel de Cervantes Saavedra Mungo Park Murray N. Rothbard Nathaniel Hawthorne Niccolò Machiavelli O. Henry Oscar Wilde Paul Craig Roberts Per Bylund Plato Plutarch Ralph Franklin Keeling Richard Francis Burton Richard Lovell Edgeworth Richard Lynn Robert Barr Robert S. Griffin Robin Koerner Rose Wilder Lane Rudyard Kipling S. Baring-Gould Saint Augustine Samuel Butler Sigmund Freud Sinclair Lewis Stanley Weinbaum Stefan Zweig Stendhal Stephen Crane Stephen J. Sniegoski Suetonius Tacitus Theodore Canot Theodore Roosevelt Thomas Babington Macaulay Thomas Bulfinch Thomas C. Taylor Thomas Carlyle Thomas Dixon Thomas Jefferson Thomas More Thomas Nelson Page Thomas Paine Thomas Seltzer Thorstein Veblen Thucydides Ulysses S. Grant Van Wyck Brooks Victor Hugo Virginia Woolf W.E.B. Du Bois Walter Lippmann Walter Scott Washington Gladden Wilfred Wilson Willa Cather Willard Huntington Wright William Graham Sumner William H. Prescott William Henry Chamberlin Wilmot Robertson Winston Churchill Winston S. Churchill Woodrow Wilson
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    Joseph Conrad

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    The old officer with long white moustaches gave rein to his indignation. “Is it possible that you youngsters should have no more sense than that! Some of you had better wipe the milk off your upper lip before you start to pass judgment on the few poor stragglers of a generation which has done and... Read More
    I am informed that in criticizing that literature which preys on strange people and prowls in far-off countries, under the shade of palms, in the unsheltered glare of sunbeaten beaches, amongst honest cannibals and the more sophisticated pioneers of our glorious virtues, a lady—distinguished in the world of letters—summed up her disapproval of it by... Read More
    I don’t know whether I ought to offer an apology for this collection which has more to do with life than with letters. Its appeal is made to orderly minds. This, to be frank about it, is a process of tidying up, which, from the nature of things, cannot be regarded as premature. The fact... Read More
    A Romance of the Shallows
    Of the three long novels of mine which suffered an interruption, “The Rescue” was the one that had to wait the longest for the good pleasure of the Fates. I am betraying no secret when I state here that it had to wait precisely for twenty years. I laid it aside at the end of... Read More
    A Story Between Two Notes
    The pages which follow have been extracted from a pile of manuscript which was apparently meant for the eye of one woman only. She seems to have been the writer’s childhood’s friend. They had parted as children, or very little more than children. Years passed. Then something recalled to the woman the companion of her... Read More
    A Confession
    Only the young have such moments. I don’t mean the very young. No. The very young have, properly speaking, no moments. It is the privilege of early youth to live in advance of its days in all the beautiful continuity of hope which knows no pauses and no introspection. One closes behind one the little... Read More
    Tales
    In the private editorial office of the principal newspaper in a great colonial city two men were talking. They were both young. The stouter of the two, fair, and with more of an urban look about him, was the editor and part-owner of the important newspaper. The other’s name was Renouard. That he was exercised... Read More
    An Island Tale
    The last word of this novel was written on 29 May 1914. And that last word was the single word of the title. Those were the times of peace. Now that the moment of publication approaches I have been considering the discretion of altering the title-page. The word “Victory” the shining and tragic goal of... Read More
    A Tale in Two Parts
    I believe he had seen us out of the window coming off to dine in the dinghy of a fourteen-ton yawl belonging to Marlow my host and skipper. We helped the boy we had with us to haul the boat up on the landing-stage before we went up to the riverside inn, where we found... Read More
    Some Reminiscences
    As a general rule we do not want much encouragement to talk about ourselves; yet this little book is the result of a friendly suggestion, and even of a little friendly pressure. I defended myself with some spirit; but, with characteristic tenacity, the friendly voice insisted, “You know, you really must.” It was not an... Read More
    Tales
    Ever since the sun rose I had been looking ahead. The ship glided gently in smooth water. After a sixty days’ passage I was anxious to make my landfall, a fertile and beautiful island of the tropics. The more enthusiastic of its inhabitants delight in describing it as the “Pearl of the Ocean.” Well, let... Read More
    To begin with I wish to disclaim the possession of those high gifts of imagination and expression which would have enabled my pen to create for the reader the personality of the man who called himself, after the Russian custom, Cyril son of Isidor—Kirylo Sidorovitch—Razumov. If I have ever had these gifts in any sort... Read More
    On my right hand there were lines of fishing stakes resembling a mysterious system of half-submerged bamboo fences, incomprehensible in its division of the domain of tropical fishes, and crazy of aspect as if abandoned forever by some nomad tribe of fishermen now gone to the other end of the ocean; for there was no... Read More
    The six stories in this volume are the result of some three or four years of occasional work. The dates of their writing are far apart, their origins are various. None of them are connected directly with personal experiences. In all of them the facts are inherently true, by which I mean that they are... Read More
    A Simple Tale
    Mr Verloc, going out in the morning, left his shop nominally in charge of his brother-in-law. It could be done, because there was very little business at any time, and practically none at all before the evening. Mr Verloc cared but little about his ostensible business. And, moreover, his wife was in charge of his... Read More
    Memories and Impressions
    Landfall and Departure mark the rhythmical swing of a seaman’s life and of a ship’s career. From land to land is the most concise definition of a ship’s earthly fate. A “Departure” is not what a vain people of landsmen may think. The term “Landfall” is more easily understood; you fall in with the land,... Read More
    A Tale of the Seaboard
    “Nostromo” is the most anxiously meditated of the longer novels which belong to the period following upon the publication of the “Typhoon” volume of short stories. I don’t mean to say that I became then conscious of any impending change in my mentality and in my attitude towards the tasks of my writing life. And... Read More
    For a long time after the course of the steamer Sofala had been altered for the land, the low swampy coast had retained its appearance of a mere smudge of darkness beyond a belt of glitter. The sunrays seemed to fall violently upon the calm sea—seemed to shatter themselves upon an adamantine surface into sparkling... Read More
    A Narrative
    This could have occurred nowhere but in England, where men and sea interpenetrate, so to speak—the sea entering into the life of most men, and the men knowing something or everything about the sea, in the way of amusement, of travel, or of bread-winning. We were sitting round a mahogany table that reflected the bottle,... Read More
    The main characteristic of this volume consists in this, that all the stories composing it belong not only to the same period but have been written one after another in the order in which they appear in the book. The period is that which follows on my connection with Blackwood’s Magazine. I had just finished... Read More
    "Ideas," she said. "Oh, as for ideas—" "Well?" I hazarded, "as for ideas—?" We went through the old gateway and I cast a glance over my shoulder. The noon sun was shining over the masonry, over the little saints' effigies, over the little fretted canopies, the grime and the white streaks of bird-dropping. "There," I... Read More
    A Reminiscence
    Several of us, all more or less connected with the sea, were dining in a small river-hostelry not more than thirty miles from London, and less than twenty from that shallow and dangerous puddle to which our coasting men give the grandiose name of “German Ocean.” And through the wide windows we had a view... Read More
    When this novel first appeared in book form a notion got about that I had been bolted away with. Some reviewers maintained that the work starting as a short story had got beyond the writer’s control. One or two discovered internal evidence of the fact, which seemed to amuse them. They pointed out the limitations... Read More
    The Nellie, a cruising yawl, swung to her anchor without a flutter of the sails, and was at rest. The flood had made, the wind was nearly calm, and being bound down the river, the only thing for it was to come to and wait for the turn of the tide. The sea-reach of the... Read More
    Of the five stories in this volume, “The Lagoon,” the last in order, is the earliest in date. It is the first short story I ever wrote and marks, in a manner of speaking, the end of my first phase, the Malayan phase with its special subject and its verbal suggestions. Conceived in the same... Read More
    A Tale of the Forecastle
    From that evening when James Wait joined the ship—late for the muster of the crew—to the moment when he left us in the open sea, shrouded in sailcloth, through the open port, I had much to do with him. He was in my watch. A negro in a British forecastle is a lonely being. He... Read More
    “An Outcast of the Islands” is my second novel in the absolute sense of the word; second in conception, second in execution, second as it were in its essence. There was no hesitation, half-formed plan, vague idea, or the vaguest reverie of anything else between it and “Almayer’s Folly.” The only doubt I suffered from,... Read More
    A Story of an Eastern River
    “Kaspar! Makan!” The well-known shrill voice startled Almayer from his dream of splendid future into the unpleasant realities of the present hour. An unpleasant voice too. He had heard it for many years, and with every year he liked it less. No matter; there would be an end to all this soon. He shuffled uneasily,... Read More