'... It's hard to write with no hope ...' Anyone who feels he has any choice in the matter probably shouldn't be trying to write. The experience of living produces various illnessess in all of us. Some get asthma, some develop coronary infarcts, some go mad & some develop the compulsion to write. It doesn't depend on encouragement, or the realistic prospect of being famous. It's just there, like the bloody weather, & there's not a thing anyone can do about it. Regarding your Doris Lessing story. I'd be amazed if anyone was tempted - de novo - to publish her nowadays. She enjoyed a certain mournful vogue in the days when a CP membership card & solidarity with idealists like Robert Mugabe would admit you to the pink parlours of Hampstead. But, so far as I know, no one ever actually read her for pleasure. If any aging idealists do still buy her books it must surely be to set on the shelf beside the chianti-bottle lamp & the poster of Che - poignant reminders of a long lost youth. You're quite right about me though, Colin. Years of toiling away with my fellow crazies have rendered me grossly insensitive to another's pain. Perhaps even, as you say, perversely sadistic in my enjoyment of it. But there you go. It's a tough old world. Incidentally, '... sad desire to merely say ...' I know it's OK to split the old infins these days & only the pedants make a fuss. But. Just say it over to yourself a few times. Are you really happy with it? Scottie B.