Perhaps I traveled to0 much, left my heart in too many places, I knew what I was supposed to feel, what it was fashionable for my generation to feel. We cared about everything: fascism in Germany and Italy, the seizure of Manchuria, Indian nationalism, the Irish question, the Workers, the Negroes, the Jews. We had spread our feelings over the whole world; and I knew that mine were spread very thin. I cared — oh yes, I certainly cared — about the Austrian socialists. But did I care as much as I said I did, tried to imagine I did? No, not nearly as much. I felt angry with Patterson; but he, at least, was honest. What is the use of caring at all, if you aren’t prepared to dedicate your life to die? Well, perhaps it was some use. Very, very little.

Prater Violet, Christopher Isherwood

Advertisements