Nothing so precious as a bowl of rice.

God bless the short-sightedness of man who, in his thin hour, will become philanthropic to save himself.

Farming practices must change.

Rice prices will keep on rising.

In my youth I sent letters and crusaded for these things. To see it now, to see the doom far, far ahead on the horizon and coming at a pace that scares us but still gives us time to act, reduces me to tears. Not of anger, but of hope. Deep inside I knew that unless it was in our face every day we would not change. Even I would not change. But now it comes towards us, some low beast with slow thighs, and we know what to do.
We may yet survive ourselves.