There’s a moment in Bede’s History of England when human life is compared to a sparrow flying through a banqueting hall. Darkness lies on one side, darkness on the other, and between them a brief spell of warmth, conviviality, chatter and firelight. The image is lovely, but for all we know it may be the wrong way round. It may be that we come in from the light; we go to the light; and what lies between, murkier, clumsier, frustrating but still fascinating, is our existence here. The fire, like Plato’s fire in the cave, throws our shadows on the wall; the gleaming brasses and goblets - for we might as well stay in Bede’s world - are heaped around us for a while; the music makes us melancholy or joyful for something we have forgotten. But out of our experience, trapped in that wattle-and-daub hall for a while, we make what we can.