Life Is To Blame For

But How Do I Get To Having To Write A Book?... It Was A Mother Who Bore Me, Not An Inkwell!

It Was The Tenderness Mingled With Melancholy Which We Bring To A Time That Belongs Irrevocably To The Past, When A Pale, Delicate Shadow Rises From It Bearing The Lilies Of The Dead, And In It We Find A Forgotten Likeness To Ourselves. And That Faint, Wistful Shadow, That Pale Scent, Seemed To Vanish Away Into A Wide, Full, Warm Stream - The Life That Now Lay Open Before Him.

...love Must Be Regarded As One Of The Religious And Dangerous Experiences, Because It Lifts People Out Of The Arms Of Reason And Sets Them Afloat With No Ground Under Their Feet.

Life Is To Blame For Everything.

Scientific Reason, With Its Strict Conscience, Its Lack Of Prejudice, And Its Determination To Question Every Result Again The Moment It Might Lead To The Least Intellectual Advantage, Does In An Area Of Secondary Interest What We Ought To Be Doing With The Basic Questions Of Life.