Tuesday, January 11th – Grand rolling weather. Foamy
sea, boisterous wind, sun, pageant of clouds, and Brighton full of wealthy
imperative persons dashing about in furs and cars. I walked with joy to and fro
on this unparalleled promenade. And yet, at this election time, when all wealth
and all snobbery is leagued together against the poor, I could spit in the face
of arrogant and unmerciful Brighton, sporting its damned Tory colours.
I heard the door-keeper of this hotel
politely expostulating with a guest: ‘Surely, Mr -----, you don’t say you’re
anything but a Conservative?’ Miserable parrot. After reading some pessimistic
forecasts of the election I was really quite depressed by tea time. But I went
upstairs and worked like a brilliant nigger, and counted nearly 5,000 words
done in two days, and I forgot my depression.
Certainly this morning as I looked at all
the splendid solidarity of Brighton, symbol, of a system that is built on the
grinding of the faces of the poor, I had to admit that it would take a lot of
demolishing, that I couldn’t expect to overset it with a single manifesto and a single
election, or with 50. So that even if elections are lost, or are not won, I do
not care. Besides, things never turn out as badly as our fears. It is only when
one does not fear that they go surprisingly and bafflingly wrong, as with the Socialists
at the last German general election.
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