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Throughout 1938, these stern hopes seemed to wither. The choice before the artist grew ever more stark. He could, wrote Blunt in his Spectator piece for June 24th, either discipline himself to paint the world as it was, paint something else as mere frivolous distraction, or commit suicide. [...]

These works "cannot reach more than the limited coterie of aesthetes".

Elias Canetti described the true writer as "the thrall of his time"

"with the tenebrous incense of the oracular"