And Yet We Knew, For A Certainty,

Come, Every Frustum Longs To Be A Cone, And Every Vector Dreams Of Matrices. Hark To The Gentle Gradient Of The Breeze: It Whispers Of A More Ergodic Zone.

To Torture A Man You Have To Know His Pleasures.

The Only Writers Who Have Any Peace Are The Ones Who Don't Write. And There Are Some Like That. They Wallow In A Sea Of Possibilities. To Express A Thought, You First Have To Limit It, And That Means Kill It. Every Word I Speak Robs Me Of A Thousand Others, And Every Line I Write Means Giving Up Another.

A Smart Machine Will First Consider Which Is More Worth Its While: To Perform The Given Task Or, Instead, To Figure Some Way Out Of It.

Not Only Does God Play Dice With The World He Does Not Let Us See What He Has Rolled.