Mâ, the Ancient One of evolution, leads Gringo on adventures through the past & future of the Earth, from the pre-human forest to the forest of tomorrow.
Un 'Livre de la Jungle' à l'envers. Non plus un petit d'homme qui revient à la vie animale, mais un autre petit d'homme dans une tribu sauvage de la forêt amazonienne, qui cherche comment on sort de la Tribu humaine et le passage de 'l'Homme après l'Homme'. C'est la légende de l'évolution et de l'Ancienne de l'évolution, figurée par la 'reine' de la tribu, qui entraîne Gringo à la découverte des aventures passées de la terre - en Egypte, dans l'Atlandide, en pays arctique -, et dans l'aventure de l'avenir de la terre, chaque fois forçant le barrage des défenseurs de la Loi établie, que ce soit celle des anciens initiés, celle de la Tribu amazonienne, celle des spiritualistes ou celle des biologistes du XXième siècle. Car chaque sommet atteint devient l'obstacle du prochain cycle. Successivement, Gringo passe par la 'porte de braise', la 'porte de jade', la 'porte bleu', la 'porte de neige', avant d'arriver à la 'porte noire' du XXIième siècle et à la 'minute nulle' où les hommes disent NON à leur loi suffocante et consentent à ouvrir 'les nouveaux yeux de la terre'. l'auteur évoque ici l'aventure qu'il a vécue dans la forêt vierge de Guyanne à l'âge de vingt-cinq ans, et l'aventure qu'il a vécue auprès de Sri Aurobindo et de Mère dans l'avenir de la terre : toute une courbe, de la forêt pré-humaine à la forêt mystérieuse de demain.
A 'Jungle Book' in reverse. No longer a young boy returning to animal life, but another young boy in a wild tribe of the Amazon rainforest, who seeks to discover how one escapes from the human Tribe and the passage of 'Man after Man.' This is the legend of evolution and of the Ancient One of evolution, represented by the 'queen' of the tribe, who leads Gringo on a journey of discovery through the past adventures of the earth — in Egypt, in Atlantis, in the Arctic lands — and into the adventure of the earth's future, each time forcing through the barrier of the defenders of the established Law, whether that of the ancient initiates, that of the Amazonian Tribe, that of the spiritualists, or that of the biologists of the 20th century. For every summit reached becomes the obstacle of the next cycle. Successively, Gringo passes through the 'gate of embers,' the 'gate of jade,' the 'gate of blue,' the 'gate of snow,' before arriving at the 'black gate' of the 21st century and at 'zero minute,' where men say NO to their suffocating law and consent to open 'the new eyes of the earth.' The author evokes here the adventure he lived in the virgin forest of Guyana at the age of twenty-five, and the adventure he experienced alongside Sri Aurobindo and 'Mother' in the future of the earth: an entire arc, from the pre-human forest to the mysterious forest of tomorrow.
I
SO then, in an obscure Antarctic continent, the earth trembled. Geysers of fire erupted to the sky. The cries of birds and monkeys fell silent in a leaden hush as clouds swollen with rain and lightning came to wrap the green hills in a soft shroud. And the earth broke its moorings.
It began to groan like a gigantic barge run aground on a shattered basalt reef, oscillating, releasing from a thousand sudden crevasses a hissing of angry lava and boiling water; slowly, it rolled on its granite hull, leaving a petrified Australia behind in port, and put to sea in a devastation of foam.
Perhaps some forgotten seagull let out a last cry in the wild rigging of the old world. The earth slid into the blue waters, leaving behind a trail of sunken emeralds. Other fragments sank hull and all with their precarious wisdoms and a few arrogant triumphs, while a tiny green alga clinging to its rock and some few men, perhaps, with their great dreaming eyes, drifted on a smooth, pink India toward a barbarous continent.
The stars rolled on as usual, the eons, the tranquil ages. The immense raft forgot a rustling, heavy strip of Africa in an enormous rumble, continuing its course westward, always westward, laden with crackling thunder and a timid hope like the beat of a wing.
This was America, like a great green shark letting slip a silver fin in the tumult of the waters. It was a hundred million years before this era or after this era — so many vain, cruel, thirsty eras, restless, marching, ever marching toward a little child of man or iguana who might find a stilled heart, perhaps a new heart that would gather all the stars and all the tales of all the stars in its light net.
What then was the purpose of the great voyage across so many sorrows and sunken pyramids and small children of children, dead-dead-dead — for what? For the glory of which heaven, which god, which cannon, which sepulcher of prehistoric wisdom or indubitable electronics? Where is the land? Where is the earth of a tiny green alga, purely green, purely singing and delicious — of a little child of man or another man purely himself on the bank of the great torrent?
With one last heave of its shoulder, the old raft sank into the shallows of the Pacific, raising a cataclysm of foam and snow, like some Himalaya over there, tranquil for some impassive gaze, consenting eternally to the slow labor of joy amid the faded cries of monkeys and small, avid men.
Once more, the story began.
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