“He starts as if to make a philosophic statement about the Universe and breaks off with a gruffi disclaimer’’ (E. M. Forster).

It is a fair generalization to say that modern novels, that is, novels written during the past twenty-five years, invite the reader to a discussion of the writer’s personality. It is Conrad’s reticence, above all, that places him as the last English traditional novelist, at the end of the line running from Fielding through Dickens.

It is unfortunate that Conrad’s reticence, his effort at impersonality, should lead to a belief that he has no emotions to reveal. For in popular estimation Typhoon ranks as Conrad’s greatest novel, and Conrad himself has come to be considered as a sort of McWhirr—a methodical sea-dog of settled convictions, but unaccountably gifted with a romantic imagination which enabled him to write sea-stories. And although it is good to see Conrad being republished at all, I hope it will not seem ungracious to Messrs Dent if I register my misgivings at their recent republication of Typhoon, and wish that they had chosen one of his novels (say, Heart of Darkness) which invited speculation as to Conrad’s personality and which was more central in his achievement.