As Flitch dryly remarked when Greybeard commented on the graveyard, “Ah, they keep a-planting of ’em, but… — Brian Aldiss

All of which pointed to a moral that they should have learned long before, Arthur thought: Never trust a bunch of lousy politicians to do your thinking for you.

Perhaps the first fire, the first tool, the first wheel, the first carving in a limestone cave, had each possessed a symbolic rather than a practical value, had each been pressed to serve distortion rather than reality. It was a sort of madness that had driven man from his humble sites on the edges of the woods into towns and cities, into arts and wars, into religious crusades, into martyrdom and prostitution, into dyspepsia and fasting, into love and hatred, into this present cul-de-sac; it had all come about in pursuit of symbols. In the beginning was the symbol, and darkness was over the face of the Earth.

“Sounds to me as if you want journalists,” Timberlane said.

“No, sir, we require steady men with integrity. This is not a scoop, it’s a way of life.”