Yet I did not write. There was a certain distaste for just throwing out a book which has no particular significance. It was easy enough to write, but to write something that was worthwhile was another matter, something that would not grow stale while I sat in prison with my manuscript and the world went on changing. I would not be writing for today or tomorrow but for an unknown and possibly distant future. For whom would I write? And for when? Perhaps what I wrote would never be published, for the years I would spend in prison were likely to witness even greater convulsions and conflicts than the years of war that are already over.