The Life of the Caterpillar 



a world ruled by an Intelligence, we are quite 

 out of the swim. Order, balance, harmony: 

 that is all silly nonsense. The universe is a 

 fortuitous arrangement in the chaos of the 

 possible. What is white might as easily be 

 black, what is round might be angular, what 

 is regular might be shapeless and harmony 

 might just as well be discord. Chance has de- 

 cided all things. 



Yes, we are a pair of prejudiced old fogeys 

 when we linger with a certain fondness over 

 the marvels of perfection. Who troubles 

 about these futilities nowadays? So-called 

 serious science, the science which spells 

 honour, profit and renown, consists in slicing 

 your animal with very costly instruments into 

 tiny circular sections. My housekeeper does 

 as much with a bunch of carrots, with no 

 higher pretention than to concoct a modest 

 dish, which is not an invariable success. In 

 the problem of life are we more successful 

 when we have split a fibre into four and cut 

 a cell into shavings? It hardly seems so. 

 The riddle is as dark as ever. Ah, how much 

 better is your method, my dear master; above 

 all, how much loftier your philosophy, how 

 much more wholesome and invigorating! 



122 



