There Is Nothing Very 'normal' About Nature.

A Man Who Has Once Looked With The Archaeological Eye Will Never See Quite Normally. He Will Be Wounded By What Other Men Call Trifles. It Is Possible To Refine The Sense Of Time Until An Old Shoe In The Bunch Grass Or A Pile Of Nineteenth Century Beer Bottles In An Abandoned Mining Town Tolls In One's Head Like A Hall Clock.

In The End, Science As We Know It Has Two Basic Types Of Practitioners. One Is The Educated Man Who Still Has A Controlled Sense Of Wonder Before The Universal Mystery, Whether It Hides In A Snail's Eye Or Within The Light That Impinges On That Delicate Organ. The Second Kind Of Observer Is The Extreme Reductionist Who Is So Busy Stripping Things Apart That The Tremendous Mystery Has Been Reduced To A Trifle, To Intangibles Not Worth Troubling One's Head About.

[on Common Water.] Its Substance Reaches Everywhere; It Touches The Past And Prepares The Future; It Moves Under The Poles And Wanders Thinly In The Heights Of Air. It Can Assume Forms Of Exquisite Perfection In A Snowflake, Or Strip The Living To A Single Shining Bone Cast Up By The Sea.

Each One Of Us Is A Statistical Impossibility Around Which Hover A Million Other Lives That Were Never Destined To Be Born.

At The Core Of The Universe, The Face Of God Wears A Smile