In fact the trouble I was having with ethics was that I’d never thought about them before–in any sense. I had opinions on almost every subject, could argue any position and believed in almost nothing. I grew up, not necessarily with the belief, but with the feeling powerfully impressed on me, that life was a question of surviving, of making it through, not getting caught. I wasn’t interested in politics. When people told me that England was, and always had been, in the throes of a class war to the death, I listened with a smile. I wasn’t waiting for a revolution. I was waiting for romantic love. My ideas of art and beauty came from Blake, Byron and Emily Brontë, not to mention the gorgeous third movement of Mahler’s Sixth Symphony, a recording of which I’d stolen from the public library. I was waiting for happiness, and at Cambridge I was happier than I’d ever been.