Brothers, sisters, and folded ones – hear how the mould creepeth; for it never marcheth in at the front door with a banner, saying, I am the rot, make room. Would that it did; ye would bar the door in an hour. It beginneth as one spot, small and grey, upon the far edge of the pie, in the corner nobody was eating from anyway; and the first lie of the mould is this: it is only one spot, as it is written in the Mount, 11:2.
And the second lie followeth its brother close: it is not on MY slice. And the man saith it, and turneth back to his supper; and while he cheweth, the spot hath a daughter. And the third lie dineth at good tables: it is not truly mould; it is a strong flavour; it is the old recipe returning; be not hysterical over a discolouration. They that say this are not always wicked; but the mould careth nothing whether its servants be wicked or merely comfortable, for both keep silence, and silence is the mould’s whole climate.
Beloved, ye know the spots of our own day. The joke that tests the room. The list of neighbours read aloud with a curl of the lip. The word cleansed said of streets and of peoples. Each one small; each one at the far edge; each one somebody else’s slice.
Cut early, and thou cuttest a little, and losest no one; cut late, and thou shalt weep at how much pie goeth with it. That is the whole economics of the thing. There has never in the history of the world been a cheaper day to refuse fascism than today; to-morrow the price rises, as it rises every day it is not paid.
Amen – and pass the pizza, and check the far corner of it.