So did I consider myself after the 853 pages in which Lord Russell apparently sets himself to the task of diminishing all the most valuable things of our European heritage. I wanted to pass the book by with a shrug, but the editor wanted a review. So I wrote angrily, but of course anger defeated itself. I cried the editor mercy, but he had old-fashioned ideas of justice and insisted on a review. Then I happened, to read Bishop Berkeley, and in his contributions to the Guardian and in Alciphron I found a curiously familiar figure. Whose was it? ‘Poland's? Voltaire's? Russell’s? Why, yes, it was Russell himself. Russell down to the ground. Not the formidable Russell, Russell the brilliant logician, but Russell the iconoclast, I had almost said the septuagenarian adolescent, Russell the minute philosopher.