The Fate Of All Explanation Is To

People With A Psychological Need To Believe In Marvels Are No More Prejudiced And Gullible Than People With A Psychological Need Not To Believe In Marvels.

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.

I Have Taken The Stand That Nobody Can Be Always Wrong, But It Does Seem To Me That I Have Approximated So Highly That I Am Nothing Short Of A Negative Genius.

I Shut The Front Door Upon Christ And Einstein, And At The Back Door Hold Out A Welcoming Hand To Little Frogs And Periwinkles. I Believe Nothing Of My Own That I Have Ever Written. I Cannot Accept That The Products Of Minds Are Subject-matter For Beliefs.

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.