The Truth Is, It's Not A Great

The Life Of A Poet Lies Not Merely In The Finite Language-dance Of Expression But In The Nearly Infinite Combinations Of Perception And Memory Combined With The Sensitivity To What Is Perceived And Remembered.

The Past Is Dead And Buried. But I Know Now That Buried Things Have A Way Of Rising To The Surface When One Least Expects Them To.

His Imagination Was Always More Real Than The Reality Of Daily Life.

Once Evolution Gets A Good Basic Design, It Tends To Throw Away The Variants And Concentrate On The Near-infinite Diversity Within That Design.

If Our God's Work Is To Be Done In Our Time, We Must Do It Ourselves.