IN THE northern part of the island of Borneo, two months ago, I walked across a bridge. It was a frail suspension bridge, three feet wide and perhaps 50 yards long. It swayed with me as I walked along the split bamboo floor, holding the cables with both hands. I stopped in the middle over the muddy stream, and a woman of the Kadazan tribe passed me, baby on back, and basket of vegetables on her head. As she walked on, the bridge and I undulated like a wave, so that I shared in her motion. A little way downstream, a conventional type of arched cement bridge crossed the stream, but one abutment had been washed away in the rainy season. Still farther downstream, a ford crossed the now sluggish stream which cascaded over the stone slabs of the roadway. A sign warned autos not to cross the ford if the water level stands above a certain mark on a post. Three types of bridge, three levels, for all kinds of conveyances; and when the roaring mountain torrent makes the ford impassable, and the bridge is washed away, communication still continues on foot over the frail suspension bridge. You and I are teachers of foreign languages. We believe that learning a foreign language is not an idle exercise or merely intellectual discipline, but that a foreign language, well learned, is a bridge of communication and contact with another people, another culture, which then becomes less foreign, more human, to the learner. Many kinds of bridges at many different levels are needed in this world, for many different kinds of people and different uses. There are or soon will be three billion people on the earth, speaking thousands of different languages. Let us therefore build bridges. We are living in a strangely paradoxical world. The relative size of our globe is shrinking at a fantastic rate. It is a commonplace to point out that you can fly from here to Singapore, halfway around the earth, in less than twentyfour hours. When the new supersonic transport goes into service in the mid-70s, you will fly from London to New York almost twice as fast as the sun can make the same trip. The result is that this is also a frighteningly expanding world, growing vast, enormous. Far more touches us intimately than ever before. People and sights now crowd into our consciousness which we could easily ignore before. We turn on the television and live through an ugly riot in Detroit, or a similar one except for a few details, in Bombay. American boys are fighting and dying in South Vietnam, a place which few could have located on a map ten years ago; but we watch them now on TV and suffer with them, and with the Vietnamese peasants. We find ourselves in other countries and among strange people before the bridges have been built, before communication has been established. We are sitting down to eat with people to whom this unprepared intimate contact is distasteful.