Each Man Deciphers From The Ancient Alphabets

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.

The Iron Did Not Remember The Blood It Had Once Moved Within, The Phosphorous Had Forgot The Savage Brain.

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.

It Has Been Said Repeatedly That One Can Never, Try As He Will, Get Around To The Front Of The Universe. Man Is Destined To See Only Its Far Side, To Realize Nature Only In Retreat.

Man Is Always Marveling At What He Has Blown Apart, Never At What The Universe Has Put Together, And This Is His Limitation.