Then he reasoned, as he had in the days past, that the course of human history had shown national pride—the inflexible kind—to be mankind’s worst enemy, and ordinary people paid the price in suffering. Nations had gone down because of vainglory, when moderation might have civilized and saved them.
Whatever Caliban′s ancestry may be, it remains that the West Indian Caliban is a poet whose poetic topography covers the whole of the Caribbean “trough” but whose harrowing experience of exile has turned him into a theroid monster.
At the Wilkeshire Club a large number of hunters had arrived. . . . [A] splendid pack of hounds was held by the huntsman while they debated whether to hold a paper chase or to try a drag hunt.
Instead of drivelling away the precious initiative season of life in the vain labour of teaching tuneable voices to sing[.]
