I Believe Nothing Of My Own That

Venus De Milo. To A Child She Is Ugly. When A Mind Adjusts To Thinking Of Her As A Completeness, Even Though, By Physiologic Standards, Incomplete, She Is Beautiful.

In Measuring A Circle, One Begins Anywhere.

If Human Thought Is A Growth, Like All Other Growths, Its Logic Is Without Foundation Of Its Own, And Is Only The Adjusting Constructiveness Of All Other Growing Things. A Tree Cannot Find Out, As It Were, How To Blossom, Until Comes Blossom-time. A Social Growth Cannot Find Out The Use Of Steam Engines, Until Comes Steam-engine-time.

But Truth Is That Besides Which There Is Nothing: Nothing To Modify It, Nothing To Question It, Nothing To Form An Exception: The All-inclusive, The Complete - By Truth, I Mean The Universal.

Sometimes I Am A Collector Of Data, And Only A Collector, And Am Likely To Be Gross And Miserly, Piling Up Notes, Pleased With Merely Numerically Adding To My Stores. Other Times I Have Joys, When Unexpectedly Coming Upon An Outrageous Story That May Not Be Altogether A Lie, Or Upon A Macabre Little Thing That May Make Some Reviewer Of My More Or Less Good Works Mad. But Always There Is Present A Feeling Of Unexplained Relations Of Events That I Note, And It Is This Far-away, Haunting, Or Often Taunting, Awareness, Or Suspicion, That Keeps Me Piling On.