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The classic tale of terrorism from one of the twentieth century’s greatest novelists To his friends and family Adolf Verloc is a typical London businessman. But in reality he is a secret agent for a foreign government. His assignment has been to stir up trouble among the local anarchist groups, but when his handlers become frustrated with his lack of progress, they demand a new course of action: Verloc will bomb the Royal Observatory in Greenwich. A masterpiece of intricate plotting and dark realism, The Secret Agent skips backward and forward in time as the repercussions of its central event are felt by every character—from the radicals who think Verloc is one of their own to the wife and brother-in-law he traps in his whirlwind of destruction. This is one of Joseph Conrad’s finest novels, and a portrait of the devastating effects of extremism, as relevant today as when it was first published more than a century ago. This ebook has been professionally proofread to ensure accuracy and readability on all devices.
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 brother-in-law. The shop was small, and so was the house. It was one of those grimy brick houses which existed in large quantities before the era of reconstruction dawned upon London. The shop was a square box of a place, with the front glazed in small panes. In the daytime the door remained closed; in the evening it stood discreetly but suspiciously ajar. The window contained photographs of more or less undressed dancing girls; nondescript packages in wrappers like patent medicines; closed yellow paper envelopes, very flimsy, and marked two-and-six in heavy black figures; a few numbers of ancient French comic publications hung across a string as if to dry; a dingy blue china bowl, a casket of black wood, bottles of marking ink, and rubber stamps; a few books, with titles hinting at impropriety; a few apparently old copies of obscure newspapers, badly printed, with titles like The Torch, The Gong--rousing titles. And the two gas jets inside the panes were always turned low, either for economy's sake or for the sake of the customers.
Mr Verloc, going out in the morning, left his shop nominally in charge of his brother-inlaw. It could be done, because there was very little business at any time, and practicallynone at all before the evening. Mr Verloc cared but little about his ostensiblebusiness. And, moreover, his wife was in charge of his brother-in-law.The shop was small, and so was the house. It was one of those grimy brick houses whichexisted in large quantities before the era of reconstruction dawned upon London. The shopwas a square box of a place, with the front glazed in small panes. In the daytime the doorremained closed; in the evening it stood discreetly but suspiciously ajar.The window contained photographs of more or less undressed dancing girls; nondescriptpackages in wrappers like patent medicines; closed yellow paper envelopes, very flimsy, and marked two-and-six in heavy black figures; a few numbers of ancient French comicpublications hung across a string as if to dry; a dingy blue china bowl, a casket of blackwood, bottles of marking ink, and rubber stamps; a few books, with titles hinting atimpropriety; a few apparently old copies of obscure newspapers, badly printed, with titleslike The Torch, The Gong-rousing titles. And the two gas jets inside the panes were alwaysturned low, either for economy's sake or for the sake of the customers
Joseph Conrad published The Secret Agent in 1907 and the work is often taken to be the major work in a trilogy of political works that Conrad published around this time (the other two are Nostromo and Under Western Eyes). The book is also taken to be Conrad's greatest metropolitan novel and makes use both of Continental and English writing styles. The Secret Agent is one of the first spy novels and is written in such a way as to require great attention on the part of the reader to make sense of the plot developments that occur (Simmons and Stape, viii).
Mr Verloc, going out in the morning, left his shop nominally in charge of his brother-inlaw. It could be done, because there was very little business at any time, and practicallynone at all before the evening. Mr Verloc cared but little about his ostensiblebusiness. And, moreover, his wife was in charge of his brother-in-law.The shop was small, and so was the house. It was one of those grimy brick houses whichexisted in large quantities before the era of reconstruction dawned upon London. The shopwas a square box of a place, with the front glazed in small panes. In the daytime the doorremained closed; in the evening it stood discreetly but suspiciously ajar.The window contained photographs of more or less undressed dancing girls; nondescriptpackages in wrappers like patent medicines; closed yellow paper envelopes, very flimsy, and marked two-and-six in heavy black figures; a few numbers of ancient French comicpublications hung across a string as if to dry; a dingy blue china bowl, a casket of blackwood, bottles of marking ink, and rubber stamps; a few books, with titles hinting atimpropriety; a few apparently old copies of obscure newspapers, badly printed, with titleslike The Torch, The Gong-rousing titles. And the two gas jets inside the panes were alwaysturned low, either for economy's sake or for the sake of the customers.These customers were either very young men, who hung about the window for a timebefore slipping in suddenly; or men of a more mature age, but looking generally as if theywere not in funds. Some of that last kind had the collars of their overcoats turned right upto their moustaches, and traces of mud on the bottom of their nether garments, which hadthe appearance of being much worn and not very valuable. And the legs inside them didnot, as a general rule, seem of much account either. With their hands plunged deep in theside pockets of their coats, they dodged in sideways, one shoulder first, as if afraid to startthe bell going
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 brother-in-law. The shop was small, and so was the house. It was one of those grimy brick houses which existed in large quantities before the era of reconstruction dawned upon London. The shop was a square box of a place, with the front glazed in small panes. In the daytime the door remained closed; in the evening it stood discreetly but suspiciously ajar. The window contained photographs of more or less undressed dancing girls; nondescript packages in wrappers like patent medicines; closed yellow paper envelopes, very flimsy, and marked two-and-six in heavy black figures; a few numbers of ancient French comic publications hung across a string as if to dry; a dingy blue china bowl, a casket of black wood, bottles of marking ink, and rubber stamps; a few books, with titles hinting at impropriety; a few apparently old copies of obscure newspapers, badly printed, with titles like The Torch, The Gong-rousing titles. And the two gas jets inside the panes were always turned low, either for economy's sake or for the sake of the customers. These customers were either very young men, who hung about the window for a time before slipping in suddenly; or men of a more mature age, but looking generally as if they were not in funds. - Taken from "The Secret Agent: A Simple Tale" written by Joseph Conrad
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 brother-in-law. The shop was small, and so was the house. It was one of those grimy brick houses which existed in large quantities before the era of reconstruction dawned upon London. The shop was a square box of a place, with the front glazed in small panes. In the daytime the door remained closed; in the evening it stood discreetly but suspiciously ajar.