We Cannot Pluck A Flower Witout Disturbing

Man Is Dragged Hither And Thither, At One Moment By The Blind Instincts Of The Forest, At The Next By The Strange Intuitions Of A Higher Self Whose Rationale He Doubts And Does Not Understand.

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.

I Am What I Am And Cannot Be Otherwise Because Of The Shadows.

We Are Rag Dolls Made Out Of Many Ages And Skins, Changelings Who Have Slept In Wood Nests, And Hissed In The Uncouth Guise Of Waddling Amphibians. We Have Played Such Roles For Infinitely Longer Ages Than We Have Been Human. Our Identity Is A Dream. We Are Process, Not Reality.

Mind Is Locked In Matter Like The Spirit Ariel In A Cloven Pine. Like Ariel, Men Struggle To Escape The Drag Of The Matter They Inhabit, Yet It Is The Spirit That They Fear.