This book is intended to take you into the strange world where we have now been living for a year. Naturally a small fee is payable.
If we delayed writing till we got back to England we should gain in tranquility, but in every thing else we should lose. We have no idea how we shall regard this interlude in the future years. The only thing we can be sure of is that we will not see it in the way we see it now. Therefore the picture we mean to draw now is the one which we should lose for ever if we delayed —
"Ere the fleeting hour goes by,
Quick! Thy tablets, Memory."
For as we write this, we are in it. We are not even 'certain' that we shall ever go back to England. At the moment there is not a whisper of release, and the war seems well able to go on for ever. Freedom is a hypothesis, prison is a fact.
DB and DD