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352 pages, Paperback
First published January 1, 1960
Even about my overcoat, I noticed, there was something unintentionally deceitful. The look of discreet simplicity advertised to knowing eyes its considerable cost. True, it was now three years since I had bought it in Sydney, but it had a boring monumental resistance to time and still contrived to seem subtly out of place in the local shops, as my other clothes did in Miss Evans's.
At home the single aim was to present a front of expensive elegance, whereas in London it was obligatory to show what one was and did: this uniform for genuine socialists, this for hereditary shoppers in Harrods, and so on... (p.4)
I'd known few men of principle, and none who combined integrity with intellect. I had respected almost no one, and felt the lack.
Then, all my life I had been ill of emotion. (p.26_
Not to have people or things, not to be had by them. My very survival, it seemed, had hinged on the absence of feeling from my life. How pure was freedom and isolation! (p.26-7)