A Mother Never Realizes That Her Children

The Goal Is The Same: Life Itself; And The Price Is The Same; Life Itself.

Isn’t Every Human Being Both A Scientist And An Artist; And In Writing Of Human Experience, Isn’t There A Good Deal To Be Said For Recognizing That Fact And For Using Both Methods?

And Somewhat As In Blind Night, On A Mild Sea, A Sailor May Be Made Aware Of An Iceberg, Fanged And Mortal, Bearing Invisibly Near, By The Unwarned Charm Of Its Breath, Nothingness Now Revealed Itself: That Permanent Night Upon Which The Stars In Their Expiring Generations Are Less Than The Glinting Of Gnats, And Nebulae, More Trivial Than Winter Breath; That Darkness In Which Eternity Lies Bent And Pale, A Dead Snake In A Jar, And Infinity Is The Sparkling Of A Wren Blown Out To Sea; That Inconceivable Chasm Of Invulnerable Silence In Which Cataclysms Of Galaxies Rave Mute As Amber.

Children, Taught Either Years Beneath Their Intelligence Or Miles Wide Of Relevance To It, Or Both: Their Intelligence Becomes Hopelessly Bewildered, Drawn Off Its Centers, Bored, Or Atrophied.

Seems As Unfounded ... To Say There Isn't A God As To Say There Is.