The tragic culture-hero of the season if not the age must be James Gore-Graham, Esq. This hitherto obscure furniture designer from Hammersmith decided in late summer to take action on behalf of his eighteenth-century ideal of Art. The object of his attack was sitting on Thames’s south bank beside the Royal Festival Hall, where it had been placed by a minor sculptor whose name in this matter is less important than his CND (Campaign for Nuclear Disarmament) sympathies. These had prompted him to pile up a great number of used car-tires more or less into the shape of a nuclear submarine. Whatever this may have portended for London-Moscow Mir i Druzhba(peace and friendship), to Gore-Graham it signified an aesthetic outrage and a disgusting blot on the public landscape. In the small hours of August 22 he walked up to the eyesore and poured a quantity of gasoline over one end of it. Knowing more Art than Chemistry, he did not realize that he had created a kind of bomb. When he struck a light, meaning to incinerate what he regarded as a pile of rubbish, it blew up in his face like napalm and burned ninety percent of his body. As he lay dying in the arms of a policeman who had rushed to the scene, the unwary idealist gasped, “I was a fool.” For all that his death proved the truth of these last words, it may not have been quite useless. More vividly than any page