My Father Was Very Musical,

It May Be -- I Hope It Is -- Redemption To Guess And Perhaps Perceive That The Universe, The Hell Which We See For All Its Beauty, Vastness, Majesty, Is Only Part Of A Whole Which Is Quite Unimaginable.

Maybe Half A Dozen Think They Are A Community, But, In General Terms, I Think English Writers Tend To Face Outwards, Away From Each Other, And Write In Their Own Patch, As It Were.

Kill The Pig! Cut His Throat! Kill The Pig! Bash Him In!

Simon Became Inarticulate In His Effort To Express Mankind's Essential Illness.

Utopias Are Presented For Our Inspection As A Critique Of The Human State. If They Are To Be Treated As Anything But Trivial Exercises Of The Imagination. I Suggest There Is A Simple Test We Can Apply. We Must Forget The Whole Paraphernalia Of Social Description, Demonstration, Expostulation, Approbation, Condemnation. We Have To Say To Ourselves, How Would I Myself Live In This Proposed Society? How Long Would It Be Before I Went Stark Staring Mad?