Today I Think That If

Our Ignorance Allowed Us To Live, As You Are In The Mountains, And Your Rope Is Frayed And About To Break, But You Don't Know It And Feel Safe.

If It Is True That There Is No Greater Sorrow Than To Remember A Happy Time In A State Of Misery, It Is Just As True That Calling Up A Moment Of Anguish In A Tranquil Mood, Seated Quietly At One's Desk, Is A Source Of Profound Satisfaction.

Did Chemistry Theorems Exist? No: Therefore You Had To Go Further, Not Be Satisfied With The Quia, Go Back To The Origins, To Mathematics And Physics. The Origins Of Chemistry Were Ignoble, Or At Least Equivocal: The Dens Of The Alchemists, Their Abominable Hodgepodge Of Ideas And Language, Their Confessed Interest In Gold, Their Levantine Swindles Typical Of Charlatans And Magicians; Instead, At The Origin Of Physics Lay The Strenuous Clarity Of The West-archimedes And Euclid.

To Give A Name To A Thing Is As Gratifying As Giving A Name To An Island, But It Is Also Dangerous: The Danger Consists In One's Becoming Convinced That All Is Taken Care Of And That Once Named, The Phenomenon Has Also Been Explained.

This Cell Belongs To A Brain, And It Is My Brain, The Brain Of Me Who Is Writing; And The Cell In Question, And Within It The Atom In Question, Is In Charge Of My Writing, In A Gigantic Minuscule Game Which Nobody Has Yet Described. It Is That Which At This Instant, Issuing Out Of A Labyrinthine Tangle Of Yeses And Nos, Makes My Hand Run Along A Certain Path On The Paper, Mark It With These Volutes That Are Signs: A Double Snap, Up And Down, Between Two Levels Of Energy, Guides This Hand Of Mine To Impress On The Paper This Dot, Here, This One.