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I have in recent years often reflected upon memory. One takes it so for granted. One remembers with such facile infallibility. And one finds with such shock – at least it was a shock to me – that memory isn’t true.

This is the problem with too much Schooling. One learns to manipulate the labels in a way that the Gamesmistresses approve, and one doesn’t realize that things do not always act in accordance with the labels in the real world. One doesn’t realize that the labels, come to that, are often wrong.

Sometimes there is such crowding that there is irritation, and this makes fear or anger; and following fear comes meetings of councils to make regulations; and following regulations is further irritation at the laws that are made.

I have often wondered why anger is considered by some Western religions to be a sin. It is such a marvelous protection against evil.

It cheered me a little. Enmities among one’s enemies are always comforting.

One hates to think that all of existence is trivial.

We had what we thought was the answer and we troubled to look no further.

“Better late than not at all,” came a voice from the ranked multitude. “Better a tardy lover than a lonely bed.”

“Well, why didn’t the silly Bloomians think of that?”

“Religion, I imagine, friend Chance. Religion serves to prevent thought in many cases, and I’d say it had done so here. They started with the presumption that anything as complex as the mill must exist for a good reason. Then they spent all their time inventing a good reason—and some god to be responsible for it—rather than looking for a sensible solution to their problem.”

They were betrayed, Oracle. Ganver tells me there is no anger greater than that of a zealot betrayed.

He rejoices to have done with the dead. The living need our attentions more, he says. Who can argue with that?

It went on, “If you accuse, then you must judge.”

“You let your accusers be your judges?” asked Peter, astounded.

“Who else should be satisfied?” it asked. “If one’s accusers cannot be satisfied, what is justice?”

“One’s accusers might be mad,” Peter suggested, very unwisely I thought, considering where we were. “Mad, and incapable of being satisfied.”