Henri hesitated. 'Suppose you see a string of lights at night along the bank of a river. It's a pretty sight. But when you know they light up cities where people are dying of hunger, they lose all their poetry, become nothing but a mirage. You'll tell me I can write about other things, about those people who are dying of hunger, for example. But I'd rather discuss those things at meetings, or in articles.'

'I wouldn't tell you that at all,' Dubreuilh said spiritedly. 'Those lights shine for everyone. Obviously, the basic need is to have food to eat, but what good is eating if you're denied all the little things that make life worth living? Why, for instance, are we taking this trip? It's because we believe that landscapes aren't mirages.'

'All right,' Henri said. 'Let's admit that some day everything will make sense again. But just now, there are so many things which are so much more important.'

'But it makes sense just now,' Dubreuilh said. 'Since it means something in our lives, it's going to mean something in our books.' He said, beginning to sound annoyed, 'To hear you talk, you'd think the left is dedicated to propagandist literature only, in which each and every word must enlighten the reader.'