The Spike
A Hanging
Bookshop Memories
Shooting an Elephant
Marrakech
Poetry and the microphone
Revenge is sour
The Sporting Spirit
A Nice Cup of Tea
Books vs. Cigarettes
Confessions of a Book Reviewer
Decline of the English Murder
How the Poor Die
Pleasure Spots
Some Thoughts on the Common Toad
Why I Write
Such, Such were the Joys
Reflections on Ghandi
 
It was late-afternoon. Forty-nine of us, forty-eight men and one woman, lay on the green waiting for the spike to open. We were too tired to talk much. We just sprawled about exhaustedly, with home-made cigarettes sticking out of our scrubby faces. Overhead the chestnut branches were covered with blossom, and beyond that great woolly clouds floated almost motionless in a clear sky. Littered on the grass, we seemed dingy, urban riff-raff. We defiled the scene, like sardine-tins and paper bags on the seashore.