E era então, em 1936, que a Victor Gollancz publicava na Grã-Bretanha o romance de George Orwell Keep the Aspidistra Flying. Na segunda metade dos anos trinta, como se sabe, boas coisas se cozinhavam para juntar às que já estavam cozinhadas… something deep below
“Something deep below made the stone street shiver. The tube-train, sliding through middle earth. He had a vision of London, of the western world; he saw a thousand million slaves toiling and groveling about the throne of money. The earth is ploughed, ships sail, miners sweat in dripping tunnels underground, clerks hurry for the eight-fifteen with the fear of the boss eating at their vitals. And even in bed with their wives they trembled and obey. Obey whom? The money-priesthood, the pink-faced masters of the world. The Upper-Crust. A welter of sleek young rabbits I thousand guinea motor cars, of golfing stockbrokers and cosmopolitan financiers, and Chancery lawyers and fashionable Nancy boys, of bankers, newspaper peers, novelists of all four sexes, American pugilists, lady aviators, film stars, bishops, titled poets, and Chigago gorillas.
Mais tarde em The Art of Donald McGill, e naquele ano do qual já ninguém se lembra (1441), relembraria aquilo que o senhor de bigode estranho do canal já se tinha lembrado antes, também porque já era tarde de mais para relembrar outra coisa:
“The high sentiments always win in the end, the leaders who offer blood, toil, tears and sweat always get more out off their followers than those who offer safety and a good time. When it comes to the pinch, human beings are heroic.”