About fifty years ago I read what must have been a young adult’s version of The Voyage of the Beagle. Along with Charles Darwin himself, many have drawn inferences from the basic premise that in the process of life generating itself, there are variations along with a tendency for survival among those whose acquired variants are, in hindsight, referred to as best adapted to their environment.
In the now that was his time, the lad, portrayed here, was about to enrich, confuse or do worse to mankind. This, his portrait, could have, but didn’t simply disappear into some attic.
Without claims of novelty or obscurity, I now add to those conclusions my own.