Henry James, you will say, was even more patient. Yes, but James
did not brood. His work was active analysis, cutting finer and
finer until the atom was reached. His mind was Occidental. He
wished to know why the wheels went round. Conrad's, in this
respect, is Oriental. He wants to see what things essentially are.
Henry James refines but seldom repeats. Conrad, in such a story as
"Gaspar Ruiz" for example, or in "Chance," gives the impression of
not caring to understand if only he can fully picture the mind
that his brooding imagination draws further and further from its
sheath. It is incredible, to one who has not counted, how many
times he raises the same situation to the light--the Garibaldean
and Nostromo, Mrs. Travers marveling at her knowledge of Lingard's
heart--turns it, opens it a little further, and puts it back
while he broods on. Here is the explanation of Conrad's prolixity;
here the reason why among all living novelists he is least a slave
to incident, best able to let his story grow as slowly as life, and
still hold the reader's interest. As we read Conrad we also
brood; we read slowly where elsewhere we read fast.
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