I realize that my role or function is to argue, to play the part of critic, so that Comrade Butte may have the illusion that he has fought his way through informed opposition. I am, in fact, his youthful self, sitting opposite him, which he has to defeat. I am ashamed I have never understood this very obvious fact before; and even think — perhaps those other books wouldn’t have been published if I had refused to play this role of captive critic? Jack says, mildly, after a time: ‘But Anna, this won’t do. You’re expected to make a criticism for the edification of Comrade Butte here.’ I say: ‘You know it’s bad. Comrade Butte knows it’s bad …’ Comrade Butte lifted his faded, crease-surrounded eyes to stare at me, ‘… and I know it’s bad. And we all know it will be published.’ John Butte says: ‘Can you please tell me, Comrade Anna, in six words, or perhaps eight, if you can spare so much of your valuable time, why this is a bad book?’ ‘As far as I can see the author has lifted his memories from the ‘thirties intact and made them true of Britain 1954, and apart from that he appears to be under the impression that the great British working-class owe some kind of allegiance to the Communist Party.’ His eyes flash with anger, He suddenly lifts a fist and crashes it on Jack’s desk. ‘Publish and be damned!’ he shouts. ‘Publish and be damned! That’s what I say.’ This is so bizarre, that I laugh. Then I see how much to be expected it was. At the laugh, and at Jack’s smile, John Butte seems to shrivel with anger; he goes behind barricade after barricade of himself into an inner fortress, staring out of it with steady angry eyes. ‘I seem to amuse you, Anna. Would you be kind enough to explain why?’ I laugh and look at Jack, who nods at me: yes, explain. I look back at John Butte, think, and say: ‘What you’ve said sums up everything that is wrong with the Party. It’s a crystallization of the intellectual rottenness of the Party that the cry of nineteenth-century humanism, courage against odds, truth against lies, should be used now to defend the publication of a lousy lying book by a Communist firm which will risk nothing at all by publishing it, not even a reputation for integrity.’ I am terribly angry. Then I remember that I work for this firm, and am in no position to criticize; and that Jack runs it, and will in fact have to publish this book. I am afraid I have hurt Jack, and look at him: he looks back, quietly, and then he nods, just once, and smiles. John Butte sees the nod and the smile. Jack turns to meet John’s anger. Butte is literally shrivelled with his anger. But it is a righteous anger, he is defending the good and the right and the true. Later, these two will discuss what has happened; Jack will agree with me; the book will be published. ‘And about the other book?’ Butte asks. But I am bored and impatient. I am thinking after all, this is the level on which the Party should be judged, the level on which it actually makes decisions, does things; not on the level of the conversations I have with Jack which do not affect the Party at all. Suddenly I decide I must leave the Party. It interests me that it should be this moment instead of another. ‘And so,’ I say pleasantly: ‘both books will be published, and this has been a very interesting discussion,’ ‘Yes, thank you, Comrade Anna, it has indeed,’ says John Butte. Jack is watching me; I think that he knows I have made my decision. But these men now have other things to discuss which do not concern me, so I say good-bye to John Butte and go into my room next door. It is shared by Jack’s secretary, Rose. We dislike each other, and we greet each other coolly. I settle down to the piles of magazines and papers on my desk.