For 
Marlene, my
bonnie Lass,
of ancient, present, future times and even beyond
and for Moya
whose 
this is, for better or worse,
with Bernie's
love.
I thought about
patriotism. I wished I had been born early enough to have been called a
* er. It was a term of sneering abuse,
but I should be delighted to accept it as a description of myself. That Little
sounds the right note of affection. It is , I love.
...
And my patriotism, I assured myself, does begin at home. There is a lot of pride in it.
Ours is a country that has given the world something more than millions of yards of calico
and thousands of steam engines. If we are a nation of shopkeepers, than what a shop! There
is Shakespeare in the window, to begin with;
and the whole establishment is blazing with geniuses.
...
But let us burn every book, tear down every memorial, turn every cathedral and college
into an engineering shop, rather than grow cold and petrify, rather than forget that inner
glowing tradition of the English spirit. Make it, if you like, a matter of pride. Let us
be too proud, my mind shouted, to refuse shelter to exiled foreigners, ... , too proud to
lose an inch of our freedom,
...
Warmed a little by my peroration, I noticed that a lamp was cutting the fog away from a
charming white gate. Doors were opened. Even the very firelight was familiar. I was
home.
J.B. Priestley: English Journey. Penguin Books
1977. p. 389-390.
|
- All rights reserved.