A Sound Banker, Alas, Is Not One

Like All His Type, Newton Was Wholly Aloof From Women.

This Siren, This Goat-footed Bard, This Half Human Visitor To Our Age The Hag-ridden And Enchanted Woods Of Celtic Antiquity. One Catches In His Company That Flavour Of Final Purposelessness, Inner Responsibility, Existence Outside Or Away From Our Saxon Good And Evil, Mixed With Cunning, Remorselessness, Love Of Power.

It Is Investment, I.e. The Increased Production Of Material Wealth In The Shape Of Capital Goods, Which Alone Increases National Wealth.

If The Treasury Were To Fill Old Bottles With Bank-notes, Bury Them At Suitable Depths In Disused Coal-mines Which Are Then Filled Up To The Surface With Town Rubbish, And Leave It To Private Enterprise On Well-tried Principles Of Laissez-faire To Dig The Notes Up Again (the Right To Do So Being Obtained, Of Course, By Tendering For Leases Of The Note-bearing Territory), There Need Be No More Unemployment And, With The Help Of Repercussions, The Real Income Of The Community, And Its Capital Wealth, Would Probably Become A Good Deal Greater Than It Actually Is.

Economists Must Leave To Adam Smith Alone The Glory Of The Quarto, Must Pluck The Day, Fling Pamphlets Into The Wind, Write Always Sub Specie Temporis , And Achieve Immortality By Accident, If At All.