The damndest lie

       'Mother and Father so very disappoint,' he said quietly. 'So they stop talk.'
       Then he sat up and pointed to one of the slatted sun-blinds at that moment hanging partially down over a window. We children, he said, were like the twine that kept the slats held together. A Japanese monk had once told him this. We often failed to realise it, but it was we children who bound not only a family, but the whole world together. If we did not do our part, the slats would fall and scatter over the floor.

[ . . . ]

       'Like that blind there' — I pointed — 'if the twine broke. Everything might scatter.'
       Uncle Philip stared at the blind I had indicated. Then he rose, went to the window and touched it gently.
       'Everything might scatter. You might be right. I suppose it's something we can't easily get away from. People need to feel they belong. To a nation, to a race. Otherwise, who knows what might happen? This civilisation of ours, perhaps it'll just collapse. And everything scatter, as you put it.'