The Distributive Passions

The Fourierist historians have always tended to moralism, when they did not sink into indifference, and these tendency have not diminished since the War began. Far from it. Every sudden advance of their cause they attribute to the actions of The Butterfly, and every setback, or apparent setback, to The Cabalist, though if ever there was a cabal worthy of the name it must be these smug priests of the Newest Dispensation. Historians should not be priests, or at least not priests of History. Reverence and the sense of destiny are always more than a match for objectivity, and never more than now, in the Age of Harmony-in-Abeyance. Why is it that the boldest of our sociologies seem to generate the dullest of moralisms? I feel the island-hopper nose down—with my thoughts, I think, and try to shake off this precisely pathetic, undisciplined notion—starting down towards yet another in the seemingly endless series of atoll airstrips and way-stations. The aircraft quiets as we start the slow, gliding descent. Plenty of time still to do a little work, take a surreptitious look at my dosimeter—which shows readings much lower than I had dared expect, and almost within the officially quoted rates. Three more hops, if I haven’t lost count, and I need to have my story down. The sun sinking towards the golden sea. Ah, well. The letters it is then, and without more delay. . .