Let's Die Of It Before We're Too

I Once Heard Someone Say Morality Was Method. Do You Hold With That? I Suppose You Wouldn't. You Would Say That Morality Was Vested In The Aim, I Expect. Difficult To Know What One's Aims Are, That's The Trouble, Specially If You're British.

Agents Of Disruption, Subversion, Sabotage And Disinformation Tunnelers And Smugglers, Listeners And Forgers, Trainers And Recruiters And Talent Spotters And Couriers And Watchers And Seducers, Assassins And Balloonists, Lip Readers And Disguise Artists.

The Secret Intelligence Service I Knew Occupied Dusky Suites Of Little Rooms Opposite St James's Park Tube Station In London.

Only Esmeralda Was Not Weeping. Instead She Wore That Wooden Look That Whites Mistake For Churlishenss Or Indifference. Woodrew Knew It Was Neither. It Was Familiarity. This How Real Life Is Constituted, It Said. This Is Grief And Hatred And People Hacked To Death. This Is The Everyday We Have Known Since We Were Born And You Wazungu Have Not.

What Do You Think Spies Are: Priests, Saints And Martyrs? They're A Squalid Procession Of Vain Fools, Traitors Too, Yes; Pansies, Sadists And Drunkards, People Who Play Cowboys And Indians To Brighten Their Rotten Lives.