Imagine A World In Which There Is

In Our Constant Search For Meaning In This Baffling And Temporary Existence, Trapped As We Are Within Our Three Pounds Of Neurons, It Is Sometimes Hard To Tell What Is Real. We Often Invent What Isn't There. Or Ignore What Is. We Try To Impose Order, Both In Our Minds And In Our Conceptions Of External Reality. We Try To Connect. We Try To Find Truth. We Dream And We Hope. And Underneath All Of These Strivings, We Are Haunted By The Suspicion That What We See And Understand Of The World Is Only A Tiny Piece Of The Whole.

Despite Our Strongly Felt Kinship And Oneness With Nature, All The Evidence Suggests That Nature Doesn't Care One Whit About Us. Tornadoes, Hurricanes, Floods, Earthquakes And Volcanic Eruptions Happen Without The Slightest Consideration For Human Inhabitants.

I Have Always Loved Magic Realism As A Form Of Writing. I Have Also Been Fascinated For A Long Time With The Intersection Of Science And Religion.

I'm Still Happy With The Way Einstein's Dreams Came Out. That Book Came Out Of A Single Inspiration. I Really Felt Like I Was Not Creating The Words, That I Was Hearing The Words. That Someone Else Was Speaking The Words To Me And I Was Just Writing Them Down. It Was A Very Strange Experience. That Can Happen With A Short Book. I Don't Think It Could Happen With A Long Book.

For It Is Only Habit And Memory That Dulls The Physical Passion. Without Memory, Each Night Is The First Night, Each Morning Is The First Morning, Each Kiss And Touch Are The First.