between our sovereign lord the King and the prisoner at the bar,
neither of whom has put in an appearance as yet.

. . . . .

Just when I was wondering whether the King and the prisoner
were, perhaps, coming to an amicable understanding in some
adjoining public house, the prisoner's head appears above
the barrier of the dock; he is accused of stealing bicycles,
and he is the living image of a great friend of mine.
We go into the matter of the stealing of the bicycles.
We do well and truly try the case between the King and the
prisoner in the affair of the bicycles. And we come to the
conclusion, after a brief but reasonable discussion, that
the King is not in any way implicated. Then we pass on to a
woman who neglected her children, and who looks as if somebody
or something had neglected her. And I am one of those who fancy
that something had.

All the time that the eye took in these light appearances
and the brain passed these light criticisms, there was in
the heart a barbaric pity and fear which men have never been
able to utter from the beginning, but which is the power behind
half the poems of the world. The mood cannot even adequately
be suggested, except faintly by this statement that tragedy
is the highest expression of the infinite value of human life.
Never had I stood so close to pain; and never so far away
from pessimism. Ordinarily, I should not have spoken of these
dark emotions at all, for speech about them is too difficult;
but I mention them now for a specific and particular