We Cannot Pluck A Flower Witout Disturbing

Without The Gift Of Flowers And The Infinite Diversity Of Their Fruits, Man And Bird, If They Had Continued To Exist At All, Would Be Today Unrecognizable.

Each One Of Us Is A Statistical Impossibility Around Which Hover A Million Other Lives That Were Never Destined To Be Born.

The Secret, If One May Paraphrase A Savage Vocabulary, Lies In The Egg Of Night.

Every Time We Walk Along A Beach Some Ancient Urge Disturbs Us So That We Find Ourselves Shedding Shoes And Garments Or Scavenging Among Seaweed And Whitened Timbers Like The Homesick Refugees Of A Long War... Mostly The Animals Understand Their Roles, But Man, By Comparison, Seems Troubled By A Message That, It Is Often Said, He Cannot Quite Remember Or Has Gotten Wrong... Bereft Of Instinct, He Must Search Continually For Meanings... Man Was A Reader Before He Became A Writer, A Reader Of What Coleridge Once Called The Mighty Alphabet Of The Universe.

Each Man Deciphers From The Ancient Alphabets Of Nature Only Those Secrets That His Own Deeps Possess The Power To Endow With Meaning.