i see, in place of that empty figment of one linear history which can be kept up only by shutting ones eyes to the overwhelming multitude of facts, the drama of a number of mighty cultures, each springing with primitive strength from the soil of a mother-region to which it remains firmly bound throughout its whole life-cycle; each stamping its material, its mankind, in its own image; each having its own idea, its own passions, its own life, will and feelings, its own death. here indeed are colours, lights, movements, that no intellectual eye has yet discovered. here the cultures, peoples, languages, truths, gods, landscapes bloom and age as the oaks and the pines, the blossoms, twigs and leaves - but there is no ageing mankind. each culture has its own new possibilities of self-expression which arise, ripen, decay and never return. there is not one sculpture, one painting, one mathematics, one physics, but many, each in the deepest essence different from the others, each limited in duration and self-contained, just as each species of plant has its peculiar blossom or fruit, its special type of growth and decline.  
United States