The Impulse To Ask Questions Is Among

Nothing, Perhaps, Is Strange, Once You Have Accepted Life Itself, The Great Strange Business Which Includes All Lesser Strangeness.

Did You Ever Look Through A Microscope At A Drop Of Pond Water? You See Plenty Of Love There. All The Amoebae Getting Married. I Presume They Think It Very Exciting And Important. We Don't.

The Ascendancy Over Men's Minds Of The Ruins Of The Stupendous Past, The Past Of History, Legend And Myth, At Once Factual And Fantastic, Stretching Back And Back Into Ages That Can But Be Surmised, Is Half-mystical In Basis. The Intoxication, At Once So Heady And So Devout, Is Not The Romantic Melancholy Engendered By Broken Towers And Mouldered Stones; It Is The Soaring Of The Imagination Into The High Empyrean Where Huge Episodes Are Tangled With Myths And Dreams; It Is The Stunning Impact Of World History On Its Amazed Heirs.

Life, For All Its Agonies...is Exciting And Beautiful, Amusing And Artful And Endearing...and Whatever Is To Come After It -- We Shall Not Have This Life Again.

Still I Sojourn Here, Alone And Palely Loitering, Though The Sedge Is Withered From The Lake And No Birds Sing. For I Sent The Bath Towel To The Wash This Morning, And Omitted To Put Out Another. I Have No Towel.