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  When I asked him what he thought of the fact that most of America's writers and intellectuals were not participating in the struggle of today and that they were,  like so many of our artists,  sitting this one out,  he declared with finality;   "Writers want to be free,  FREE from responsibilities.   The essence of civilization is the limitation of personal freedom by mutual consent.   Your writers and intellectuals are anarchists."

  Shaw's sittingroom was cluttered with sculptures of him sitting and standing;  there was also what I believe was a head of Balzac by Rodin , evidently one of the sketches for the Paris monument.   It was a cheerful room in a red brick cottage standing on the Three Cross Roads on what,  according to Shaw,  is described  "in ordinance maps as Shaw's Corners." 

  The smell of honeysuckle was in the air as we slowly walked out to the road.   "You know,"  the old man said,  smiling,  "Now I am the oldest inhabitant in the village.   It took me fourteen years before anyone took notice of me and stopped considering me an intruder." 

  We shook hands and I climbed over the wooden bars which served as the cottage fence.   I walked to the car which had brought me to the out-of-the-way Village.   G.B.S. waved a vigorous and cheerful farewell and slowly walked back into his house where he lives with so much more than just his memories.