Summerdays, and the flat water meadows and the blue hills in the distance, and the willows up the backwater and the pools underneath like a kind of deep green glass. Summer evenings, the fish breaking the water, the nightjars hawking round your head, the smell of nightstocks and latakia. Dont mistake what Im talking about. Its not that Im trying to put across any of that poetry of childhood stuff. I know thats all baloney. Old Porteous (a friend of mine, a retired schoolmaster, Ill tell you about him later) is great on the poetry of childhood. Sometimes he reads me stuff about it out of books. Wordsworth. Lucy Gray. There was a time when meadow, grove, and all that. Needless to say hes got no kids of his own. The truth is that kids arent in any way poetic, theyre merely savage little animals, except that no animal is a quarter as selfish.
A boy isnt interested in meadows, groves, and so forth. He never looks at a landscape, doesnt give a damn for flowers, and unless they affect him in someway, such as being good to eat, he doesnt know one plant from another. Killing things - thats about as near to poetry as a boy gets. And yet all the while theres that peculiar intensity, the power of longing for things as you cant long when youre grown up, and the feeling that time stretches out and out in front of you and that whatever youre doing you could go on for ever.
George Orwell
Coming Up For Air
1939