I shook my head. "It's hopeless."
"The period of revolutions is past, eh?" he asked. "To attempt to continue is merely catering to a myth?"
"I suppose so." The fog had thinned sufficiently for us to discern the darker bulk of skyscrapers against the night.
"And so you accept what you have here."
"I don't accept. I just recognize that we'll have no better. At least one's allowed a corner in which to write a book."
"For the moment."
"For the moment," I admitted.
"Of course the condition which allows you to write a book rests upon the continued exploitation of three quarters of the world, and the livind standard of a worker here depends on the Chinks and the black man missing a meal."
"It's no use," I said again.