The Secret Agent

Conrad appears to have gotten some criticism for the “sordid surroundings” and “moral squalor” of this tale. Yet when I discussed it with some friends, we all admitted that we had an impression of comedy and even absurdity, not horror. Sure, the plot is scary and tragic, but he treats it in such a way that you are never really scared, just kind of incredulous, and scornful of all the characters.

I know I have read at least one article or review of this book that said it was an illuminating read in connection with September 11. But the mood of the book seemed incompatible with that type of terror.

The book is quite different from Heart of Darkness or Lord Jim. I read those a long time ago, but I don’t remember much humor in those books. I loved Heart of Darkness as an angst-ridden adolescent. I sought out Lord Jim as an angst-ridden college student. The Secret Agent, however, is laugh-out-loud funny at some points, and impossible to ever really take seriously.

However strange this book was, Conrad is a consummate artist, and we were all impressed by his brilliant decisions about when to disclose what, what to disclose at all, and what to have take place offstage. The book was finely crafted.

I am generally more gullible than suspicious as a reader, and I grew in compassion for the characters, who were initially presented with quite a bit of irony and amusement. My friends who read the book did not seem so moved. I found things to admire about most of the characters. Seeing Conrad deal so thoughtfully with a domestic relationship was interesting for me, since I was only previously familiar with his nautical settings. There was a melodramatic scene with gas lamps and a grotesque cabdriver that I enjoyed very much and everyone else seemed to think was dumb.