I shall not be sorry to die, because then the memory too will die. And for me that is the only possible meaning of peace. Sometimes I realize that it is very pleasant here on the farm in this Derbyshire valley. Especially in spring when I have finished the morning stint of weaving and can look forward to spending a long, lazy afternoon sitting in the doorway of my cottage. There is nothing to do then but watch the sunlight slanting over low blue-green hills and listen to the voices of the children at play. And wait until darkness falls. . . . They are a strange breed, these children of the Dark Age. Their blue eyes are filled with longing and their thoughts are centered not upon the future but on what they regard as the glorious past. The age of heroes, the almost mythical age of powered machines and teeming cities, radio and television, jetcraft and fast cars. And on clear evenings there are still satellites passing across the sky like bright stars in hurried transit.
