The 'yoga of the cell' leads to 'true matter' and eventually the victory over death. A collective transformation sufficient to create a new species on earth is needed.
This year, all the features of the yoga of the cells become clear: "A growing conviction that a perfection achieved in matter is a far more perfect perfection than any other. The consciousness expressed in transformed cells is a marvel: it legitimises all these ages of misery. Oh, what a fuss all those gods make." This year marks the discovery of "true matter".... without fuss: "In that cellular limpidity, there are no more problems: the solution precedes the problem. That is, things arrange themselves automatically." It's another mode of life on earth - "such a natural way of being" - in a body freed from its mental shackles and the laws of false matter: "The extraordinary impression of the unreality of suffering the unreality of illness.... It does not cure illness: it annuls it - it makes it unreal.... And then you see: as the functioning gradually grows perfect, it necessarily, inevitably means victory over death." And meanwhile, Surveyor is digging the ground of the moon with its mechanical arms, while our own secrets remain buried in a little cell: "We can travel anywhere, we know what's going on anywhere.... and we don't know what's going on inside ourselves." War is raging in Biafra, the Israeli troops are marching toward Suez, American planes are bombing Haiphong, China explodes its first thermonuclear bomb.... and so on. "A tremendous conflict over earth." At stake is a new earth, or a return to the old fiasco: "A local and momentary manifestation is not ruled out, but what is needed is a collective transformation sufficient to create a new species on earth.... This fact is certain." Will we understand where the real way out is, and the Marvel concealed in a human body?
Last night again, for a long time in that same place. It's strange, because I wouldn't be able to recount the precise memory of all that took place, but with every circumstance of the morning, every moment the impression is, "Ah, this was decided last night ... ah, I saw that last night...." Like that. Strange. And it's always the night before the day when I am to see you.
(Mother reads out the message she intends to distribute for January 1, 1968:)
"Remain young. "Never stop striving towards perfection."
(Then Mother goes into a long contemplation lasting nearly forty-five minutes.)
Anything to say, or to ask?... For my part, I can stay like this indefinitely. It never happens, mind you1—yes, for a minute or two, but a long moment like this gives me a sort of bath of tranquil light: there's nothing left, nothing stirs anymore, it's all luminous, peaceful, tranquil ... a sort of bliss.
Whew!
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