From The Solitude Of The

Since The First Human Eye Saw A Leaf In Devonian Sandstone And A Puzzled Finger Reached To Touch It, Sadness Has Lain Over The Heart Of Man. By This Tenuous Thread Of Living Protoplasm, Stretching Backward Into Time, We Are Linked Forever To Lost Beaches Whose Sands Have Long Since Hardened Into Stone. The Stars That Caught Our Blind Amphibian Stare Have Shifted Far Or Vanished In Their Courses, But Still That Naked, Glistening Thread Winds Onward. No One Knows The Secret Of Its Beginning Or Its End. Its Forms Are Phantoms. The Thread Alone Is Real; The Thread Is Life.

The Need Is Not Really For More Brains, The Need Is Now For A Gentler, A More Tolerant People Than Those Who Won For Us Against The Ice, The Tiger And The Bear. The Hand That Hefted The Ax, Out Of Some Old Blind Allegiance To The Past Fondles The Machine Gun As Lovingly. It Is A Habit Man Will Have To Break To Survive, But The Roots Go Very Deep.

The Plan Is Not What You Think.

For The First Time In Four Billion Years A Living Creature Had Contemplated Himself And Heard With A Sudden, Unaccountable Loneliness, The Whisper Of The Wind In The Night Reeds.

The Freedom To Create Is Somehow Linked With Facility Of Access To Those Obscure Regions Below The Conscious Mind.