Once you realise that, willy nilly, you’re _inside_ the Monad, you give it up. You’re inside it and you always will be. Therefore, Jonah, sit still in the whale’s belly, and have a look round. For you’ll never measure the whale, since you’re inside him. And then you see it’s a fourth dimension, with all sorts of gods and goddesses in it. That brown hen, who, being a Rhode Island Red, is big and stuffy like plush-upholstery, is of course, a goddess in her own rights. If I myself had to make a poem to her, I should begin: Oh my flat-footed plush armchair So commonly scratching in the yard--! But this poem would only reveal my own limitations. Because Flat-foot is the favourite of the white leghorn cock, and he shakes the tid-bit for her with a most wooing noise, and when she lays an egg, he bristles like a double white poppy, and rushes to meet her, as she flounders down from the chicken-house, and his echo of her _I’ve-laid-an-egg_ cackle is rich and resonant. Every pine-tree on the mountains hears him: She’s} _laid an egg_! I’ve} She’s} _laid an egg_! I’ve} And his poem would be: “Oh you who make me feel so good, when you sit next me on the perch At night! (temporarily, of course!) Oh you who make my feathers bristle with the vanity of life! Oh you whose cackle makes my throat go off like a rocket! Oh you who walk so slowly, and make me feel swifter Than my boss! Oh you who bend your head down, and move in the under Circle, while I prance in the upper! Oh you, come! come! come! for here is a bit of fat from The roast veal; I am shaking it for you.” In the fourth dimension, in the creative world, we live in a pluralistic universe, full of gods and strange gods and unknown gods; a universe where that Rhode Island Red hen is a goddess in her own right and the white cock is a god indisputable, with a little red ring on his leg: which the boss put there. Why? Why, I mean, is he a god? Because he is something that nothing else is. Certainly he is something that I am not. And she is something that neither he is nor I am. When she scratches and finds a bug in the earth, she seems fairly to gobble down the monad of all monads; and when she lays, she certainly thinks she’s put the Mundane Egg in the nest. Just part of her naive nature! As for the goal, which doesn’t exist, but which we are always coming back to: well, it doesn’t spatially, or temporally, or eternally exist: but in the fourth dimension, it does. What the Greeks called equilibrium: what I call relationship. Equilibrium is just a bit mechanical. It became very mechanical with the Greeks: an intellectual nail put through it. I don’t _want_ to be “good” or “righteous”--and I won’t even be “virtuous”, unless “vir” means a man, and “vis” means the life-river. But I _do_ want to be alive. And to be alive, I must have a goal in the _creative_, not the _spatial_ universe.