There is an immense ocean over which the mind can sail, upon which the
vessel of thought has not yet been launched. I hope
to launch it. The mind of so many thousand years has worked
round and round inside the circle of these three ideas as a
boat on an inland lake. Let us haul it over the belt of land,
launch on the ocean, and sail outwards.

There is so much beyond all that has ever yet been imagined.
As I write these words, in the very moment, I feel that the
whole air, the sunshine out yonder lighting up the
ploughed earth, the distant sky, the circumambient ether, and
that far space, is full of soul-secrets, soul-life, things
outside the experience of all the ages. The fact of my own
existence as I write, as I exist at this second, is so
marvellous, so miracle-like, strange, and supernatural to me,
that I unhesitatingly conclude I am always on the margin of life
illimitable, and that there are higher conditions than
existence. Everything around is supernatural; everything so
full of unexplained meaning.

Twelve thousand years since the Caveman stood at the mouth of his cavern and
gazed out at the night and the stars. He looked again and saw the sun rise
beyond the sea. He reposed in the noontide heat under the shade of the
trees, he closed his eyes and looked into himself. He was face to face with
the earth, the sun, the night; face to face with himself. There was nothing
between; no wall of written tradition; no builtup system of
culture--his naked mind was confronted by naked earth. He made
three idea-discoveries, wresting them from the unknown; the
existence of his soul, immortality, the deity. Now, to-day, as
I write, I stand in exactly the same position as the Caveman.