One of the reasons why I love Conrad, other than his use of language, is how slow his novels are. A character walking down the street is turned into pages and pages of inner turmoil, paranoia, self doubt, jealousy, suspicion, and revelation. The plot is simple; the inner life is complex.

This book, so far, personifies the dangers of revolution. Razumov is, simply, the people, and Haldin is a Lenin forced upon them