The Seas Are The Heart's Blood Of

The Quality Of Life, Which In The Ardour Of Spring Was Personal And Sexual, Becomes Social In Midsummer.

When The Pleiades And The Wind In The Grass Are No Longer A Part Of The Human Spirit, A Part Of Very Flesh And Bone, Man Becomes, As It Were, A Kind Of Cosmic Outlaw, Having Neither The Completeness Nor Integrity Of The Animal Nor The Birthright Of A True Humanity.

We Need Another And A Wiser And A Perhaps More Mystical Concept Of Animals.

We Patronize The Animals For Their Incompleteness, For Their Tragic Fate Of Having Taken Form So Far Below Ourselves. And Therein We Err, And Greatly Err. For The Animal Shall Not Be Measured By Man. In A World Older And More Complete Than Ours, They Are More Finished And Complete, Gifted With Extensions Of The Senses We Have Lost Or Never Attained, Living By Voices We Shall Never Hear. They Are Not Brethren, They Are Not Underlings; They Are Other Nations, Caught With Ourselves In The Net Of Life And Time.

Animals Are Not Brethren, They Are Not Underlings; They Are Other Nations, Caught With Ourselves In The Net Of Life And Time.