‘Five years ago I was travelling in Corsica. That wild island is more distant and unknown to us than America, even though she can sometimes be seen as she is today from our very own French shores. Imagine a world still in primeval chaos. Imagine a great eruption of mountains separated by narrow ravines full of raging torrents. Not a single plain, just huge waves of granite, great reefs of land covered with bush and tall forests of chestnut and pine.

It is virgin soil, uncultivated and deserted apart from the occasional village which looks like a pile of rocks perched on top of a hill. No culture, no industry, no art. You never come across so much as a carved piece of wood or stone; no trace, however sketchy, of any desire on the part of early man here to create style or beauty. This is the most striking aspect of the place. It’s a magnificent, rough land, utterly indifferent to the attraction of form which we call art.

You’ve got, on the one hand, Italy where every palazzo is full of masterpieces and which is itself a masterpiece. There, marble, wood, bronze, iron and every other kind of metal and stone are transformed to reflect the genius of man. Even the most insignificant of objects discovered in the ruins demonstrates a spiritual yearning. We all love Italy, we cherish the place precisely because it attests to, is visible living proof of, the effort, the greatness, the power and the triumph of creativity in man.

And directly opposite you have Corsica, which has remained as it was from the very beginning. Its inhabitants live in their crude habitations, oblivious of everything but the very basic necessities of life and family vendettas. It has retained both the qualities and the defects of primitive man: violence, hatred and mindless savagery. Yet the people there are hospitable, generous, loyal and innocent. They will open their doors to passing strangers and offer unconditional friendship at the first sign of camaraderie.

For a month I had been wandering about this splendid country, feeling myself at the ends of the earth. Not a single inn, no cafés, no roads. It is only by mule track that you can reach the hamlets clinging to the sides of the mountains which look down into tortuous gulleys. From these in the evening a constant clamour rises which is the deep, distant roar of rapids. You knock on someone’s door. You ask for a night’s lodging and food till the next day. You sit down at a modest board and sleep under a humble roof. The following day you shake the hand offered to you by your host who will have accompanied you as far as the village boundary.