God Doesn't Believe In The Easy Way.

Truth Lies Within A Little And Certain Compass, But Error Is Immense.

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?

I Suspect The Fault...is In Me: That I Hate Any Job On Earth, As A Job And A Hindrance And A Semi-suicide.

It Is The Middle And Pure Height And Whole Of Summer And A Summer Night, The Held Breath, Of A Planet's Year; High Shored Sleeps The Crested Tide: What Day Of The Month I Do Not Know, Which Day Of The Week I Am Not Sure, Far Less What Hour Of The Night.

All Of Consciousness Is Shifted From The Imagined, The Revisive, To The Effort To Perceive Simply The Cruel Radiance Of What Is