ving written it. Lately,
circumstances, which have nothing to do with the general tenor of this
Preface, have compelled me to strip this tale of the literary robe of
indignant scorn it has cost me so much to fit on it decently, years ago.
I have been forced, so to speak, to look upon its bare bones. I confess
that it makes a grisly skeleton. But still I will submit that telling
Winnie Verloc's story to its anarchistic end of utter desolation,
madness and despair, and telling it as I have told it here, I have not
intended to commit gratuitous outrage on the feelings of mankind.

J. C.

1920.

A SET OF SIX

The six stories in this volume are the result of some three or four
years of occasional work. The dates of their writing are far apart,
their origins are various. None of them are connected directly with
personal experiences. In all of them the facts are inherently true, by
which I mean that they are not only possible but that they have actually
happened. For instance, the last story in the volume the one I call
Pathetic, whose first title is Il Conde (mis-spelt by-the-by) is an
almost verbatim transcript of the tale told me by a very charming old
gentleman whom I met in Italy. I don't mean to say it is only that.
Anybody can see that it is something more than a verbatim report, but
where he left off and where I began must be left to the acute
discrimination of the reader who may be interested in the problem. I
don't mean to say that the problem is worth the trouble. What I am
certain of, however, is that it is not to be solved, for I am not at all
clear about it myself by this time. All I can say is that the
personality of the narrator was extremely suggestive quite apart from
the story he was telling me. I heard a few years ago that he had died
far away from his beloved Naples where that "abominable adventure" did
really happen to him.

Thus the genealogy of Il Conde is simple. It is not the case with the
other stories. Various strains contributed to their composition, and the
nature of many of those I have forgotten, not having the habit of making
notes either before or after the fact. I mean the fact of writing a
story. What I remember best about Caspar Ruiz is that it was written, or
at any rate begun, within a month of finishing "Nostromo," but apart
from the locality, and that a pretty wide one (all the South American
Continent), the novel and the story have nothing in common, neither
mood, no