limits might not only be tolerated but encouraged on all levels-except, of course, the cannibalism. Certainly regulations are desirable; but those by which we are now dominated hardly seem suitable for promoting the good life for all. Conventional morality has fulfilled its function of stimulating habits of industry and reproduction and now needs to be supplanted by controls geared to bring into closer union the members of the human race. The statement "God is love" has not yet lost all meaning; but love without intimacy is a hollow empty concept. No longer sustained by the hope of supernatural intervention, man realizes that he is now on his ownthat he has no purpose, no goal, no mission in life other than that demanded by the deep loneliness of his nature. His most promising hope for salvation, he now realizes, is the attainment of satisfactory social relations with his fellow creatures. Only in this way can he escape the psychotic nightmare of meaningless existence.

Deep within us is the call of life. But amid the clamor of status seek-

ing and pyramid climbing, it can scarcely be heard. Excluded as irrelevant to production and reproduction are most of the values of intimacy, which somehow we must re-learn to enjoy if the flame of life is to burn bright and clear. To make the earth a more habitable place, we must discover means of integrating the value of animal-and-angel intimacy with industrial efficiency, constitutional justice, and democratic individualism.

Conclusion

Despite the baffling relationship of self to others, man with resolute effort may be able to conquer loneliness and move into a better, more exciting and richer world. As to how this may be done, I have only the vaguest idea. The advocating of greater intimacy is fraught with many dangers, not least among which is the danger of being misunderstood; but closing our eyes to the problem, and not speaking out about it, will lead only to greater loneliness. It is hoped that future research will suggest ways of transcending this dilemma.

12

KNOXVILLE SONNET 2

You fated heir of Celtic flesh that sold

Its chiefest titles out to mythic kings; Whose primal fathers traded their freehold

For drunkenness and brightly-wrought arm rings, Or rattling Chevrolets and sleeveless shirts

And deathly shrilling swerves from rude, wild race; Improvidence is what your blood asserts

As sure as you inherited your face.

So many rash men owned that face before To bequeath it through millennia to you, And now they weigh the pedal to the floor

To make a fuse the race you must pursue,

And squander their last stock, and when that's gone Then, Arthur comes no more from Avalon.

Stephen Foy