Someday, After Mastering The Winds, The Waves,

Growing Old Is Like Being Increasingly Penalized For A Crime You Haven't Committed.

Over Every Living Thing Which Is To Spring Up, To Grow, To Flower, To Ripen During This Day Say Again The Words: This Is My Body. And Over Every Death-force Which Waits In Readiness To Corrode, To Wither, To Cut Down, Speak Again Your Commanding Words Which Express The Supreme Mystery Of Faith: This Is My Blood.

We Only Have To Look Around Us To See How Complexity And Psychic 'temperature' Are Still Rising: And Rising No Longer On The Scale Of The Individual But Now On That Of The Planet. This Indication Is So Familiar To Us That We Cannot But Recognize The Objective, Experiential, Reality Of A Transformation Of The Planet 'as A Whole.'

It Often Happens That What Stares Us In The Face Is The Most Difficult To Perceive.

More Primordial Than Any Idea, Beauty Will Be Manifest As The Herald And Generator Or Ideas.