It is the Abomination of Desolation, not seen by prophecy far off in some fabulous future, nor remembered from terrible ages by the aid of papyrus and stone, but fallen on our own century, on the homes of folk like ourselves: common things that we knew are become the relics of bygone days. It is our own time that has ended in blood and broken bricks.
It can’t happen here, can it? Of course it can not: this is something that happens to other people in lesser countries far away. Something we read about in newspapers or watch in enchanted horror on the news. We watch as some unhappy country eats itself alive, vomiting forth a spray of refugees who, somehow but inevitably, we will not be able to accept here, though they be ever so deserving. And of course these distant tragedies are never our fault, not even slightly.
No, these tragedies can not happen here: we are too clever, too well-educated, too English. We have too much to lose so it will not be allowed. And if it were to happen here it would if course not be our fault: it would most certainly be the doings of inferior foreign people who wish us ill. We are, after all, simply better fellows than those unhappy far-off people.
Quote from Unhappy far-off things by Lord Dunsany.