A newspaper man I know, who was stationed in London during the war, says tourists go to England with preconceived notions, so they always find exactly what they go looking for. I told him I'd go looking for the England of English Literature, and he said:
'Then it's there.'

The plane lifted - and suddenly it was as if everything had vanished: Bloomsbury and Regent's Partk and Russel Square and rutland Gate. None of it had happened, none of it was real. Even the people weren't real. It was all imagined, they were all phantoms.