In Measuring A Circle, One Begins Anywhere.

I Think, Therefore I'm Going To Have Breakfast.

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.

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.

Against All The Opposition In The World, I Make This Statement - That Once I Knew A Magician. I Was A Witness Of A Performance That May Some Day Be Considered Understandable, But That, In These Primitive Times, So Transcends What Is Said To Be The Known That It Is What I Mean By Magic.

I Shut The Front Door Upon Christ And Einstein, And At The Back Door Hold Out A Welcoming Hand To Little Frogs And Periwinkles. I Believe Nothing Of My Own That I Have Ever Written. I Cannot Accept That The Products Of Minds Are Subject-matter For Beliefs.