This World Is Painted On A Wild

I ... Had What Kierkegaard Called 'the Sickness Of Infinitude,' Wandering From One Path To Another With No Real Recognition That I Was Embarked Upon A Search, And Scarcely A Clue As To What I Might Be After. I Only Knew That At The Bottom Of Each Breath There Was A Hollow Place That Needed To Be Filled.

Simplicity Is The Whole Secret Of Well-being.

The Ancient Intuition That All Matter, All "reality," Is Energy, That All Phenomena, Including Time And Space, Are Mere Crystallizations Of Mind, Is An Idea With Which Few Physicists Have Quarreled Since The Theory Of Relativity First Called Into Question The Separate Identities Of Energy And Matter. Today Most Scientists Would Agree With The Ancient Hindus That Nothing Exists Or Is Destroyed, Things Merely Change Shape Or Form; That Matter Is Insubstantial In Origin, A Temporary Aggregate Of He Pervasive Energy That Animates The Electron.

In Fiction, You Have A Rough Idea What's Coming Up Next - Sometimes You Even Make A Little Outline - But In Fact You Don't Know. Each Day Is A Whole New - And For Me, A Very Invigorating - Experience.

In Nonfiction, You Have That Limitation, That Constraint, Of Telling The Truth.