The trail is a loop on land that had been privately owned yet was only lightly logged, leaving most of its old growth trees alive. Last summer, fifteen of us walked the dusty firebreak road led by an ex-New Zealander guide who said, "Maybe an owl did this, or even a bobcat," standing over a pile of blood-stained feathers and fluff.

We reached the trailhead and took a narrow path, clambering over rotting stumps and living roots, stopping to pick berries and take pictures. An ex-Californian looking at familiar stands of Douglas Fir disappearing into the sky, wounded by termites and woodpeckers, he did not only know the scientific name and ecological function of all the plants he came across, but he discussed them with the natives as if he had always been part of that habitat. The men of the forest listened to him attentively and were amazed that I thought, "What had the Indians felt walking through these deep shadows falling from great heights?"

So we think nostalgically about a universe in which man, instead of acting so furiously on visible appearances, would be employed in ridding himself of them, not just by refusing to act upon them, but by stripping himself enough to discover that secret place in ourselves from which an entirely different human adventure might possibly begin.

What distinguished Alberto Giacometti from his peers was not the impossibly thin figures he made. It was that in his psyche object and subject melded. One day, after his wife had in his studio posed for him for hours, meeting her at home he said,
"I haven't seen you all day!"

At a certain depth, there is only process. So when physicists propose strings, these are not materialized forms but math-
ematically rendered squiggles, as imagination deforms sight.