I rea­lize that the chap­ters are rather quick in their sequence and that nothing much is contai­ned in any one of them but no one should be sur­pri­sed at this today.

THE TRADITIONALISTS OF PLAGIARISM

It is spring. That is to say, it. is approa­ching THE BEGINNING.

In that huge and micro­sco­pic career of time, as it were a wild horse racing in an illi­mi­table pam­pa under the stars, des­cri­bing immense and micro­sco­pic circles with his hoofs on the solid turf, run­ning without a stop for the mil­lionth part of a second until lie is aged and worn to a heap of skin, bones and rag­ged hoofs — In that majes­tic pro­gress of life, that gives the exact impres­sion of Phidias’ frizze, the men and beasts of which, though they seem of the rigi­di­ty of marble are not so but move, with blin­ding rapi­di­ty, though we do not have the time to notice it, their legs advan­cing a mil­lionth part of an inch even, — fif­ty thou­sand years — In that pro­gress of life which seems stil­l­ness itself in the mass of its move­ments — at last SPRING is approa­ching.

In that colos­sal surge toward the finite and the capable life has now arri­ved for the second lime at that exact moment when in the ages past the des­truc­tion of the spe­cies Homo sapiens occu­red.

Now at last that pro­cess of mira­cu­lous veri­si­mi­li­tude, that grate copying which evo­lu­tion has fol­lo­wed, repea­ting move for move eve­ry move that it made in the past — is approa­ching the end.

Suddenly it is at an end. THE WORLD IS NEW.