This is the source-bounded reading edition of the reconstructed lecture — the strictest of the project's editions: prose that stays within what the manuscript notes license. The left column is the ensemble-verified transcription of the sheets; the right column joins the notes into readable prose. Expansions of Stapledon's shorthand are silent, but every editorial addition — every connective sentence, every framing of a marginal note, every word without a note behind it — is tinted like this, and the scaffolding button hides or shows the tinting. Where you read the notes differently, the disagreement is with a visible editorial choice, not a hidden one. The editorial headnote below records the occasion and the manuscript's shape, with evidence classes stated; the fuller-voiced performing edition (v2) remains available.
No sheet records a venue, an audience, or a date. The one piece of physical evidence is notepaper: sheet 10 — and the final archive sheet — carry the printed letterhead of the University Club, Liverpool, which places the manuscript in Stapledon's Liverpool milieu without recording a delivery. The dating is inference, marked "c." accordingly: the project's lecture concordance places the set at c. 1931–1934 — its thematic entries say c. 1932 — from "how will England emerge from this crisis?" (the early-1930s crisis), a pre-war frame throughout, and the absence of any atomic material.
The manuscript (Liverpool University Library OS/F13/34) is twelve sheets, two of them letterhead with no lecture text. A paler pencil supplies whole sheets (the evolutionary ladder of sheet 3; the closing program of sheet 11) and revisions elsewhere — evidence of more than one working session, though for what occasion the second layer was made is unknown. Sheet 2 preserves a self-correction: "anticipation becomes commoner & more far-reaching" is queried and revised to "not more far-reaching? but commoner". Sheet 9 writes "(b)" for a second argument and stops; whatever it was to contain is lost or was never written. Three struck false starts (two of them disputed readings) are acknowledged in this edition but never voiced.
The argument builds from a parable — the boy who refused arithmetic because he felt "no obligation to the future 'I'" — to a psychology of foresight: we care for a future only when imagination has made it ours, so "the improvident are to be got at by appeal to imagination". An evolutionary ladder of anticipation and five grades of interest in the future culminate in the claim the concordance treats as this set's centre: "Today, men scoff at loyalty to Man / but it emerges, inevitably". A ten-step scale of futures, from the missile too near to blink at to the running-down of the universe, then reframes the question, and the notes end with a program: avoid wrecking the future, learn to think in terms of Man, form an ideal of what Man should do with himself — and a last line on world organisation and eugenics.
In the corpus, the concordance places sheet 4's loyalty genealogy in the two-loyalties thread as "the human half of the later two-loyalties doctrine, argued as developmental necessity", and sheet 11's ideal — "produce beings capable of richer experience" — in its threads on the Other and on man-as-instrument: the species' task stated prospectively. Sheet 11's closing line, "Practical world organisation & eugenics — eliminate deficients", the concordance calls "the bluntest eugenic sentence in the speaking corpus, closing an otherwise gradualist argument"; its synthesis finds the eugenic thread franker on the platform than in print at this early date and more cautious by the end (1948: "danger of unwise eugenics, 'messing about'") — a development in itself, and in the humane direction. This edition keeps the line as written.
What is not known: where and to whom the lecture was given, or whether it was given at all; the year; what the dangling "(b)" was to argue; and what the red "87" filing mark records.
The first sheet is headed with the title and the archive's filing marks (a red "87"; "F87"). The notes carry no venue and no date; the letterhead and internal evidence behind the c. 1931–1934 placing are set out in the headnote. The prose keeps to what the notes license: editorial connective tissue is tinted like this, expansions of his shorthand are silent, struck words are not voiced, and where the notes break off the break is recorded rather than bridged.
First, the introductory. When I was a boy — they tried to teach me arithmetic. I said: "I don't want it, have no use for it." They said: "Someday you will be sorry." I: "Perhaps — but now I don't want it." That is, I felt no obligation to the future 'I', of 20 years on; even the I of tomorrow was uninteresting, and the I of an hour hence a nuisance.
They said I was foolish. But I thought I was merely sensible, practical, realistic. Why should I bother about an 'I' that I did not feel as 'I'? I could not realise it, imagine it; it was just somebody else. But I soon learned to bother about the 'I' of tomorrow, and even the I of next year, and of ten years hence; and now I bother even over a more remote 'I'.
The upshot: we don't bother about a future I unless we have already come to feel it as in fact I. So the improvident are to be got at by appeal to imagination — not by reasoning based on an assumption of identity of present and future I.
The verso adds: compare our own eating. We seldom do it in order to live; we do it because the spirit moves us to it — an habitual response to the dinner bell. That is, much action of men and animals — though biologically serviceable — does not consciously anticipate the future. But some animals do anticipate — for example, Köhler's apes discover solutions of problems, to get food. Gradually anticipation becomes commoner and more far-reaching — and then a second thought, marked off and queried: anticipation not more far-reaching? but commoner. (A first stab at the correction — "no less" — is struck, and is not voiced.)
The whole sheet is written in the manuscript's paler pencil.
The evolution of our awareness of the future. First, creatures that live only in the present: no memory, no anticipation — an eternal present. Even dogs have no real memory? — sketchy. Birds' nest building is not real anticipation — a mere pleasurable activity.
Second, ape-men: gleams of real memory and anticipation — preparing for tomorrow, and even storing? Third, savages make boats, houses, earth walls, dams; store food for winter (the margin adds: tumuli); expeditions against enemies. Fourth, barbarians: large scale, buildings (the influence of death) — mummies in the margin — pyramids, tombs, palaces, temples. Fifth, civilized men: roads, aqueducts, castles, harbours; trading expeditions over many years. Sixth, modern men: large public works — the Suez canal; large-scale drainage, irrigation; afforestation (still very backward); electricity schemes — Shannon; scientific research.
Still, we are very short-sighted: we seldom look further than a few years ahead.
Next, the grades of development of interest in the future. First, the primitive momentary 'I', not aware of a future nor of a past. Second, the 'I' that recognizes its future theoretically — the margin glosses: the child — but cannot be bothered with it. Third, the 'I' that prepares for its future — either for tomorrow, or next year, or throughout. Fourth, the 'I' that recognizes a future beyond its own life, but cannot be bothered with it. And fifth, the 'I' that prepares for a future beyond its own life: for its children's future; for the future of its firm, craft, college, profession; for its nation, city; for the human race.
These stages represent levels of imagination and intelligence: to each, the one below seems stupid, the one above madly idealistic.
As our apprehension increases, we conceive wider loyalties. The child scoffs at loyalty to its own future self, but the loyalty inevitably emerges. Today, men scoff at loyalty to Man — but it emerges, inevitably, as the world gets unified and as knowledge increases (a diagonal caution in the margin: bar accidents).
The factors governing the development of interest in the future. (a) The bare apprehension that there is a future, caused thus: memory gives me my past; what was present is now past, with a new present; therefore I expect an infinite series of new presents (the future).
(b) The apprehension of the future is limited by the power of imagining the circumstances to come: in boyhood we can't imagine much of manhood — either of what it will feel like, or of the circumstances.
(c) Interest in the future beyond our own lives depends on parental impulses — toward our children, or toward the future population — and on the degree of clarity of our vision of the future: that is, the more doubtful it all is, the less we are concerned.
(d) The extension of interest to "the future of society" depends on how far we can foresee the future — that is, on how much the present can suggest.
(e) We are interested in the future of some object or other, not in 'futurity' — say, in 'I', children, group, nation, world. The reach of our interest depends on the object's prospect of life: the momentary self — no prospect; the 'I' — interest up to its death; a group (college) — decades?; a nation — centuries?; mankind — millions of years.
A verso line, in the paler pencil, marks the turn: I have been talking about our interest in the future. Now I shall talk about future events themselves.
Grades of futurity, near and far futures — classify them, roughly. First, the nearest of all futures (a fraction of a second): the approaching missile — too late to blink. Second, less near but very near (seconds): an approaching tennis ball; the shell has burst — will a splinter get me? Third, quarter hours and hours: am I going to bore you? shall I catch the train home? Fourth, months, weeks, days: how pay the January income tax? Fifth, years, decades: how educate one's children? how establish them for life? how provide for one's old age? how will England emerge from this crisis?
Sixth, centuries and thousands of years: what, when oil is exhausted, and coal? (A struck false start before "oil" is a disputed reading — "our" or "ex" — and is not voiced.) Seventh, hundreds of thousands, millions: when we are clear of the previous ice age. Eighth, hundreds of millions (thousands of millions): when all existing mountains are worn flat; when the next mountain-forming age comes. Ninth, millions of millions (or hundreds of thousands of millions): when the earth is uninhabitable. Tenth, millions of millions of millions: when the universe has run down completely.
Today, what futures concern us? — what futures do concern us, and what futures ought to concern us. First, each is chiefly concerned with his own future, near and far: what shall I do tomorrow? how meet next year's problems? how meet old age? Second, many are concerned with the future of children: education, career. Third, all are concerned with the future of the nation, as citizens — but mostly we cannot do much about it, save in mass movements of opinion. Fourth, all ought to be concerned with the future of humanity: individual acts are ineffectual, but massed opinions and acts are important — public opinion does control public policy, in the long run.
Note: the future of Man reaches further than the future of a nation — Man will outlast nations, and is older than nations (a struck word before the clause is a disputed reading, and is not voiced). But in a comparatively near future, the good of one nation may conflict with the good of Man: policies which would preserve a nation might harm mankind as a whole — either soon, or in the long run.
Should we bother about the future of Man? First, the arguments against bothering. (a) Humanity is too diverse, vague, unreal, to appeal to us: nothing in common to the races; they can't get in touch with each other; English and French will never agree; East is East and West is West; the Chinese eat birds' nests.
The answer — added in the paler pencil — is twofold. First, the world becomes more and more one — not in political organisation, but in common interest and culture; nations can't afford to be exclusive. Second, present races won't last for ever: in 1000 years, nations and races will be different.
The sheet then writes (b) — and stops. The second argument against bothering is never stated; if a sheet carried it, it does not survive in the file.
This sheet carries only the printed letterhead of the University Club, Liverpool ("Telephone Royal 2464"); it contains no lecture text. It is the manuscript's one piece of venue-suggestive physical evidence — notepaper, not a record of delivery.
The sheet is written throughout in the manuscript's paler pencil.
What can we do about the Future of Man? First, we can avoid acts which would jeopardise it, or wreck such civilization as we have — for example, a really destructive war; the waste of oil, nitrates; the undermining of human nature — by misguided social policy, or by misguided biological control.
Second, we can learn to think and feel in terms of Man, and in terms of a long future — that is, use our imaginations. This is our chief task at present: to familiarize ourselves with the idea 'Man'.
Third, we can begin to form an ideal of what Man should do with himself. For example: (a) produce beings capable of richer experience — profounder knowing, finer feeling, more reasonable will — each one, self-harmonious; (b) produce very diverse, original beings, not stereotyped (a false start — "for this" — is struck, and is not voiced); (c) beings in perfect accord with one another; (d) a society just the right size — organisation and freedom. Further ideals will emerge.
Fourth: practical world organisation and eugenics — eliminate deficients.
The lecture concordance calls that last line "the bluntest eugenic sentence in the speaking corpus, closing an otherwise gradualist argument", and documents its trajectory: franker here, c. 1932, than anything in his later platform record, and more guarded by 1948 ("danger of unwise eugenics, 'messing about'") — a development in the humane direction. The line is kept as written.
The final sheet bears the University Club, Liverpool letterhead again, diagonally, and the Liverpool University Library archive stamp ("STAP.", "F13/34"); it contains no further lecture text.