but I cannot take this
argument as final. Rather am I inclined to look for the answer in what
we vaguely call the divine. I think that there is a power . . . call
it God or intuition or the superconscious or what-not . . . that draws
man toward higher things. This spark of the divine raises man above
the beast of the field, but yesterday he was the beast of the field,
and like the _nouveau riche_, he scorns his humble origins.

I am forced to conclude that wars will not cease until man realises
that his ego-ideal must be capable of being the working partner of his
primitive animalism. When that time comes man will know that he is
neither god nor devil, but . . . mere man.

* * * * *

I am spending my days wandering round London suburbs looking for a
school. Of an evening I sit and think about how I shall furnish it.
There will be no desks; instead there will be tables for writing and
drawing on, chairs of all descriptions--arm-chairs, deck-chairs,
straight backed chairs, stools. The children will make the tables and
stools, and we may make a combined effort to make and upholster an
arm-chair.

Then we must have at least one typewriter, not for office use, but for
the children's use. The children will use it to type their novels and
poems, and I think they would be tempted to type out poems from Keats
and Coleridge, binding their own anthologies in leather or coloured
paper.

There will be no school readers and no school poetry books. I hope
that with the aid of the typewriter each child will make his own
selection of prose and poetry.

The wall decorations will be left to the children, and if they bring
bad, sentimental prints from the Christmas numbers I shall say nothing
when they hang them up. But as an active member of the community, I
shall bring reproductions of the work of Rembrandt, Velasquez, Angelo,
Augustus John, Cezanne, Nevinson; I shall buy _Colour_ every month.

So with music. I shall sing _Eliza Jane_ with them if they want to
sing _Eliza Jane_, but I shall bring to their notice _To Music_
(Schumann), Blake's _Jerusalem_, and the bonny old English songs like
_Golden Slumbers, Now is the Month of Maying, Polly Oliver_. Then a
gramophone is a necessity, and all kinds of records will be
necessary--Beethoven, Stravinsky, Rimski-Korsikoff, Harry Lauder, Fox
Trots, Sousa. O'Neill told me that his Lancashire kiddies have tired
of ragtime, and are now playing classi