"There is no life in the iron, there is no life in the phosphorus, the nitrogen does not contain me, the water that soaks my tissues is not I. And the chemicals that once gave it life. The outline of what was, the shadow of the fish, was still there. And here was a mystery, written in a "heavy and peculiar stone."
He was drawn to the study of time and space and our place within it. It was then that he would tell the stories. This, as with so many things, would give him pause. Both are extinct and gone, he mused, as "our massive-faced and shambling forebears of the Ice have vanished." It could, he noted, just as well have been the long-horned Alaskan bison on his wall.
He was sitting at his desk contemplating a fish fossil. Where is Loren Eiseley, now that we need him? I met him, in a manner of speaking, years ago, and then only by chance (how he would worry that word).
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