Each Man Must Have His Own Special

I Believe I'm A Caterpillar Buried Deep Down Under The Ground. The Entire Earth Is Above Me, Crushing Me And I Begin To Bore Through The Soil, Making A Passage To The Surface So That I Can Penetrate The Crust And Issue Into The Light. It's Hard Work Boring Through The Entire Earth, But I'm Able To Be Patient Because I Have A Strong Premonition That As Soon As I Do Issue Into The Light I Shall Become A Butterfly.

What, Then Is Our Duty? It Is To Carefully Distinguish The Historic Moment In Which We Live And To Consciously Assign Our Small Energies To A Specific Battlefield. The More We Are In Phase With The Current Which Leads The Way, The More We Aid Man In His Difficult, Uncertain, Danger-fraught Ascent Toward Salvation.

What A Strange Machine Man Is! You Fill Him With Bread, Wine, Fish, And Radishes, And Out Comes Sighs, Laughter, And Dreams.

Once More I Realized To What An Extent Earthly Happiness Is Made To The Measure Of Man. It Is Not A Rare Bird Which We Must Pursue At One Moment In Heaven, At The Next In Our Minds. Happiness Is A Domestic Bird Found In Our Own Courtyards.

The Human Soul Is Heavy, Clumsy, Held In The Mud Of The Flesh. Its Perceptions Are Still Coarse And Brutish. It Can Divine Nothing Clearly, Nothing With Certainty.