The Plan Is Not What You Think.

In The Days Of The Frost Seek An Minor Sun.

Out Of The Choked Devonian Waters Emerged Sight And Sound And The Music That Rolls Invisible Through The Composer's Brain. They Are There Still In The Ooze Along The Tideline, Though No One Notices. The World Is Fixed, We Say: Fish In The Sea, Birds In The Air. But In The Mangrove Swamps By The Niger, Fish Climb Trees And Ogle Uneasy Naturalists Who Try Unsuccessfully To Chase Them Back To The Water. There Are Things Still Coming Ashore.

As We Passed Under A Streetlamp I Noticed, Beside My Own Bobbing Shadow, Another Great, Leaping Grotesquerie That Had An Uncanny Suggestion Of The Frog World About It . . . Judging From The Shadow, It Was Soaring Higher And More Gaily Than Myself. 'very Well,' You Will Say, 'why Didn’t You Turn Around. That Would Be The Scientific Thing To Do.' But Let Me Tell You It Is Not Done ― Not On An Empty Road At Midnight.

It Is Surely One Of The Curious Paradoxes Of History That Science Which Professionally Has Little To Do With Faith, Owes Its Origins To An Act Of Faith That The Universe Can Be Rationally Interpreted, And That Science Today Is Sustained By That Assumption.

The Need Is Not Really For More Brains, The Need Is Now For A Gentler, A More Tolerant People Than Those Who Won For Us Against The Ice, The Tiger And The Bear. The Hand That Hefted The Ax, Out Of Some Old Blind Allegiance To The Past Fondles The Machine Gun As Lovingly. It Is A Habit Man Will Have To Break To Survive, But The Roots Go Very Deep.