Life is an art we are required to practice without preparation, a score that we play at sight even before we have mastered our instruments.

We have created an industrial order geared to automatism, where feeble-mindedness, native or acquired, is necessary for docile productivity in the factory; and where a pervasive neurosis is the final gift of the meaningless life that issues forth at the other end.

Western society has accepted as unquestionable a technological imperative that is quite as arbitrary as the most primitive taboo: not merely the duty to foster invention and constantly to create technological novelties, but equally the duty to surrender to these novelties unconditionally, just because they are offered, without respect to their human consequences.

The final goal of human effort is man's self-transforma tion.

In its revolt against congestion and sordor, a space-hungry generation has, I fear, developed eyes that are bigger than its stomach.

Only when love takes the lead will the earth, and life on earth, be safe again. And not until then.

Every generation revolts against its fathers and makes friends with its grandfathers.