One Can't Be Of An

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.

The Earth Is A Farm. We Are Someone Else's Property.

If Any Spiritualistic Medium Can Do Stunts, There Is No More Need For Special Conditions Than There Is For A Chemist To Turn Down Lights, Start Operations With A Hymn, And Ask Whether There's Any Chemical Present That Has Affinity With Something Named Hydrogen.

It Is Our Expression That The Flux Between That Which Isn't And That Which Won't Be, Or The State That Is Commonly And Absurdly Called "existence," Is A Rhythm Of Heavens And Hells: That The Damned Won't Stay Damed; That Salvation Only Precedes Perdition.

Every Science Is A Mutilated Octopus. If Its Tentacles Were Not Clipped To Stumps, It Would Feel Its Way Into Disturbing Contacts.