Each And All, We Are Riding Into

Perhaps A Creature Of So Much Ingenuity And Deep Memory Is Almost Bound To Grow Alienated From His World, His Fellows, And The Objects Around Him. He Suffers From A Nostalgia For Which There Is No Remedy Upon Earth Except As It Is To Be Found In The Enlightenment Of The Spirit--some Ability To Have A Perceptive Rather Than An Exploitive Relationship With His Fellow Creatures.

Great Minds Have Always Seen It. That Is Why Man Has Survived His Journey This Long. When We Fail To Wish Any Longer To Be Otherwise Than What We Are, We Will Have Ceased To Evolve. Evolution Has To Be Lived Forward. I Say This As One Who Has Stood Above The Bones Of Much That Has Vanished, And At Midnight Has Examined His Own Face.

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.

In The Desert, An Old Monk Had Once Advised A Traveler, The Voices Of God And The Devil Are Scarcely Distinguishable.

I Once Saw, On A Flower Pot In My Own Living Room, The Efforts Of A Field Mouse To Build A Remembered Field. I Have Lived To See This Episode Repeated In A Thousand Guises, And Since I Have Spent A Large Portion Of My Life In The Shade Of A Nonexistent Tree I Think I Am Entitled To Speak For The Field Mouse.