Utter it softly, but with a few rare exceptions the moral arbiters of our age have still failed to come for that master of realist storytelling tinged with philosophical digression, Joseph Conrad (1857–1924), who died one hundred years ago this August. It may be that Conrad and Evelyn Waugh remain the most accomplished prose writers of the twentieth century to thus far avoid the basilisk stare of the numerically tiny but implacable ranks of those who act as the censors of our modern public discourse.
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