The Fate Of All Explanation Is To

There Is Not A Physicist In The World Who Can Perceive When A Parlor Magician Palms Off Playing-cards.

The Ideal State Is Meekness, Or Humility, Or The Semi-invalid State Of The Old. Year After Year I Am Becoming Nobler And Nobler. If I Can Live To Be Decrepit Enough, I Shall Be A Saint.

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.

Venus De Milo. To A Child She Is Ugly. When A Mind Adjusts To Thinking Of Her As A Completeness, Even Though, By Physiologic Standards, Incomplete, She Is Beautiful.

Existence Is Appetite: The Gnaw Of Being; The One Attempt Of All Things To Assimilate To Some Higher Attempt.