That sex might be the only means of growth and expansion. You never
suppose that! You only assume perdition. You are afraid to assume
heaven. I may take pride in that which I may abstract from my anatomy.
I must not allude to my body as frankly as to my soul. I must withdraw
my body from the public eye. From discussion. From its instinctive
avowals. Our bodies must be coffined. Treated as dead before they are
born. Regarded as conveniences. Not as essential entities. The body is
only for a little while. The soul is forever. But why is that little
while not as holy as forever? They don't say. They cavalierly settle
the case of the body against itself.

So it goes. Endless vivid portrayals could be made of the anomalous
situation. The more you look at the mess we've got sex into the worse
it seems. _Someone's got to peach._ Someone's got to tell the truth.
In a world of liars who are hushers? In a world of hushers who are
liars? _Someone's got to tell the truth._ Someone's got to give sex
its due. _You can't give spirit its due until you give sex its due._
You can't accept one and cast aside one. They go together. They are
inseparable.

You refer to body and soul as if you knew just where one stops and the
other commences. Maybe neither stops and neither commences. Maybe they
are not two things but two names. Maybe when you put a body into a
grave you put a soul there too. And maybe you put neither there. It's
not so easy to say.

I can't see anything in the things you call spiritual more marvelous
than what you call the physical birth of a baby from a mother. Maybe
you know all about it. I don't. I know nothing about it. To me it's
mysterious. To me it's the supreme demonstration of the spiritual.