These poems were written by someone I once was and who is so distant to me now that I scarcely recognize him anymore. They speak for a time and a fee… - Laurie Lee

She is of course just an ordinary miracle, but is also the particular late wonder of my life.

So London remains my cage, the door is open, but I cannot leave. Meanwhile, the cage is comfortable enough. And now, as I finish this somewhat ungrateful piece, if I am conscious of a faintly bitter taste in my mouth, it is, I must confess, my own fault. I have just been biting the hand that feeds me, and it tastes of soot.

This London, of course, with its hollow, drum-like name, is neither England nor abroad but something on its own, a walled fantasy of remembered tales.