Progress on The Secret Agent has been excellently slow, with me now being around a third of the way in. I noted last Sunday that I thought I knew Conrad's tale of dark anarchism pretty well but I was deceiving myself. Every page has turned out to be full of forgotten surprises related to just how strange and disconcerting the novel is. I don't think there's anything else quite like it in the language for its cold detachment of observation and shifting perspectives. It manages somehow to be so completely different from anything else in Conrad - except, perhaps, Under Western Eyes.
I'd also forgotten just how coldly, unpleasantly, wickedly, funny the novel is.
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