Another one safely on the shelf, with only five more to come, and then all fourteen thick volumes of Karl Rahner's Schriften zur Theologie (1954-1980) will be translated into English, in some twenty-one slimmer and somewhat more manageable ones. This particular instalment is the second part of the volume which Rahner put together shortly after the celebration for his seventieth birthday (the volume itself was dedicated to his mother on her hundredth birthday).

The only comparable oeuvre by a Catholic theologian of Rahner's generation would no doubt be that of Hans Urs von Balthasar, but the translation into English is lagging far behind.

There was, earlier this winter, a great deal of ribald talk about a scene in the National Theatre’s production of Howard Brenton’s play The Romans in Britain. There is likely to be more talk of the same sort now that the Secretary of the National Viewers’ and Listeners’ Association is proceeding with her suit against Mr Michael Bogdanov for procuring the commission of an act of gross indecency between Mr Peter Sproule and Mr Greg Hills on 19th December last. And all this talk will doubtless be excited by public interest in Mr Timothy Sainsbury’s Indecency Displays Bill and the Government’s promise to assist the progress of that Bill through Parliament. We are, it seems, again about to debate the meaning of ‘indecency’.

Though Sir Peter Hall has not followed the distasteful example of another theatre director, I would yet like to suggest that The Romans and indecency should be considered with the Old Vic production of Macbeth in mind.

I had secured my ticket for that Macbeth some weeks before the production opened, so I was not required to join the line of those who had been excited by the critical notices which quickly made Mr Brian Forbes’ production and Mr Peter O’Toole’s performance notorious. The opportunities for happiness, or even a little pleasure, are not so common in my life that I would easily forego a performance of any of Shakespeare’s plays, and among them, Macbeth has especial claims. Once, when quite a small boy, I surprised the greatest Macbeth of my time rehearsing to himself across the lawn: ‘Learning me lines, dear laddie’, Godfrey Tearle admitted with a flourish.