110 EDGE OF THE JUNGLE 



phrases to be stopped and fettered with words, 

 and I am neither scientist nor man nor naked 

 organism, but just mind. With the coming of 

 silence I look around and again consciously take 

 in the scene. I am very glad to be alive, and 

 to know that the possible dangers of jungle and 

 water have not kept me armed and indoors. I 

 feel, somehow, as if my very daring and gentle 

 slipping-off of all signs of dominance and pro- 

 tection on entering into this realm had made 

 friends of all the rare but possible serpents and 

 scorpions, sting-rays and perai, vampires and 

 electric eels. For a while I know the happiness 

 of Mowgli. 



And I think of people who would live more 

 joyful lives in dense communities, who would be 

 more tolerant, and more certain of straightfor- 

 ward friendship, if they could have as a back- 

 ground a fundamental hour of living such as this, 

 a leaven for the rest of what, in comparison, seems 

 mere existence. 



At last I go back between the bamboos and 

 their shadows, from unreal reality into a definite- 

 ness of cot and pajamas and electric torch. But 

 wild nature still keeps touch with me; for as I 

 write these lines, curled up on the edge of the 



