Science Is The Poetry Of The Intellect

Art—the Meaning Of The Pattern Of Our Common Actions In Reality. The Cloth-of-gold That Hides Behind The Sackcloth Of Reality, Forced Out By The Pain Of Human Memory.

How Grudging Memory Is, And How Bitterly She Clutches The Raw Material Of Her Daily Work.

Poetry Is What Happens When An Anxiety Meets A Technique.

Life Is More Complicated Than We Think, Yet Far Simpler Than Anyone Dares To Imagine

Who Invented The Human Heart, I Wonder? Tell Me, And Then Show Me The Place Where He Was Hanged.