I sometimes think novelists write about sex in order to avoid boring themselves to death.
You can get all A's and still flunk life.
But what physician has not had patients who don't make any sense at all? To tell the truth, they're our stock-in-trade. We talk and write about the ones we can make sense of.
Jews wait for the Lord, Protestants sing hymns to him, Catholics say mass and eat him.
It is not merely the truth of science that makes it beautiful, but its simplicity.
Why is it that one can look at a lion or a planet or an owl or at someone's finger as long as one pleases, but looking into the eyes of another person is, if prolonged past a second, a perilous affair?