He judged the instant and let go; he flung himself loose into the stars.

The real and proper question is: why is it beautiful?

Every spring he vowed to quit teaching school, and every summer he missed his pupils and searched for them on the streets.

Peeping through my keyhold I see within the range of only about 30 percent of the light that comes from the sun; the rest is infrared and some little ultraviolet, perfectly apparent to many animals, but invisible to me. A nightmare network of ganglia, charged and firing without my knowledge, cuts and splices what I see, editing it for my brain. Donald E. Carr points out that the sense impressions of one-celled animals are not edited for the brian: 'This is philosophically interesting in a rather mournful way, since it means that only the simplest animals perceive the universe as it is.

If we listened to our intellect, we’d never have a love affair... or go into business. You’ve got to jump off cliffs and build your wings on the way down.

We have not yet encountered any god who is as merciful as a man who flicks a beetle over on its feet.

Then why did you tell me?