By the year 2047, "there will be no literary tastes and no literature." A mob of machine drivers will rule. Every hour will be lived by mankind in talk, nothing but talk. There will be no silence, no retirement, no village life. A gaping crowd of conceited fools will be everywhere. There will be no calm, contented days, no beautiful nights, no good works. All will be the same, all common. Thought and inspiration will be dead." From the Bombay Sunday Chronicle, 1947.