JESTING PILATE

betrayed (the rapes, thank goodness, are occasion- ally successful) kneeling with their illegitimate babies in front of crucifixes. As for their art——it consists ~in young men in overalls and large ties painting, in cock lofts, feminine portraits worthy to figure on the covers of magazines. And their literature is the flatulent verbiage of the captions.

Such is the white man’s world as revealed by the films, a world of crooks and half wits, morons and sharpers. A crude, immature, childish world. A world without subtlety, without the smallest intel- lectual interests, innocent of art, letters, philosophy, science. A world where there are plenty of mo- tors, telephones and automatic pistols, but in which there is no trace of such a thing as a modern idea. A World where men and women have instincts, de- sires and emotions, but no thoughts. A world, in brief, from which all that gives the modern West its power, its political and, I like patriotically to think, its spiritual superiority to the East, all that makes it a hemisphere which one is proud to have been born in and happy to return to, has been left out. To the subject races of the East and South, Hollywood proclaims us as a people of criminals and mentally defective. It was better, surely, in the old days before the cinema was invented when the white men’s subjects were totally ignorant of the world in which their masters lived. It was possible for them, then, to believe that the white men’s civilisation was something great and marvel-

lous--something even greater, perhaps, and more 226