If We Never Met Again In Our

Each Religion Is A Brave Guess At The Authorship Of Hamlet. Yet, As Far As The Play Goes, Does It Make Any Difference Whether Shakespeare Or Bacon Wrote It? Would It Make Any Difference To The Actors If Their Parts Happened Out Of Nothingness, If They Found Themselves Acting On The Stage Because Of Some Gross And Unpardonable Accident? Would It Make Any Difference If The Playwright Gave Them The Lines Or Whether They Composed Them Themselves, So Long As The Lines Were Properly Spoken? Would It Make Any Difference To The Characters If 'a Midsummer Night's Dream' Was Really A Dream?

Idealism And Science Continue To Function In Separate Compartments; And Yet 'the Happiness Of Man On Earth' Depends Upon Their Combination.

Every Transformation Of Humanity Has Rested Upon Deep Stirrings And Intuitions, Whose Rationalized Expression Takes The Form Of A New Picture Of The Cosmos And The Nature Of The Human.

Modern Man Is The Victim Of The Very Instruments He Values Most. Every Gain In Power, Every Mastery Of Natural Forces, Every Scientific Addition To Knowledge, Has Proved Potentially Dangerous, Because It Has Not Been Accompanied By Equal Gains In Self-understanding And Self-discipline.

Today, The Notion Of Progress In A Single Line Without Goal Or Limit Seems Perhaps The Most Parochial Notion Of A Very Parochial Century.