The Whole Plan Hinged Upon The Natural

Man Does Not Create Gods, In Spite Of Appearances. The Times, The Age, Impose Them On Him.

Have It Compose A Poem -- A Poem About A Haircut! But Lofty, Noble, Tragic, Timeless, Full Of Love, Treachery, Retribution, Quiet Heroism In The Face Of Certain Doom! Six Lines, Cleverly Rhymed, And Every Word Beginning With The Letter S!

Come, Every Frustum Longs To Be A Cone, And Every Vector Dreams Of Matrices. Hark To The Gentle Gradient Of The Breeze: It Whispers Of A More Ergodic Zone.

I Believe In No Final Solutions.

Man Does Not Create Gods, In Spite Of Appearances. The Times, The Age, Impose Them On Him. Man Can Serve His Age Or Rebel Against It, But The Target Of His Cooperation Or Rebellion Comes To Him From Outside.