If we openly declare what is wrong with us, what is our deepest need, then perhaps the death and despair will by degrees disappear.

It is good fiction, so largely ignored now, that brings us so much closer to the real facts.

Those no-sooner-have-I-touched-the-pillow people are past my comprehension. There is something bovine about them.

We plan, we toil, we suffer - in the hope of what? A camel-load of idol's eyes? The title deeds of Radio City? The empire of Asia? A trip to the moon? No, no, no, no. Simply to wake just in time to smell coffee and bacon and eggs.

To say that these men paid their shillings to watch twenty-two hirelings kick a ball is merely to say that a violin is wood and catgut, that Hamlet is so much paper and ink.

We should like to have some towering geniuses, to reveal us to ourselves in colour and fire, but of course they would have to fit into the pattern of our society and be able to take orders from sound administrative types.

We are members of one body. We are responsible for each other.