Each One Of Us Is

The Secret, If One May Paraphrase A Savage Vocabulary, Lies In The Egg Of Night.

In The Days Of The Frost Seek An Minor Sun.

What If I Am, In Some Way, Only A Sophisticated Fire That Has Acquired An Ability To Regulate Its Rate Of Combustion And To Hoard Its Fuel In Order To See And Walk?

Man Inhabits A Realm Half In And Half Out Of Nature, His Mind Reaching Forever Beyond The Tool, The Uniformity, The Law, Into Some Realm Which Is That Of The Mind Alone.

Out Of The Choked Devonian Waters Emerged Sight And Sound And The Music That Rolls Invisible Through The Composer's Brain. They Are There Still In The Ooze Along The Tideline, Though No One Notices. The World Is Fixed, We Say: Fish In The Sea, Birds In The Air. But In The Mangrove Swamps By The Niger, Fish Climb Trees And Ogle Uneasy Naturalists Who Try Unsuccessfully To Chase Them Back To The Water. There Are Things Still Coming Ashore.