There Is Always A Part Of My

Suicide Carries In Its Aftermath A Level Of Confusion And Devastation That Is, For The Most Part, Beyond Description.

Love, Like Life, Is Much Stranger And Far More Complicated Than One Is Brought Up To Believe.

The Pursuit Of Knowledge Is An Intoxicant, A Lure That Scientists And Explorers Have Known From Ancient Times; Indeed, Exhilaration In The Pursuit Of Knowledge Is Part Of What Has Kept Our Species So Adaptive.

I Long Ago Abandoned The Notion Of A Life Without Storms, Or A World Without Dry And Killing Seasons. Life Is Too Complicated, Too Constantly Changing, To Be Anything But What It Is. And I Am, By Nature, Too Mercurial To Be Anything But Deeply Wary Of The Grave Unnaturalness Involved In Any Attempt To Exert Too Much Control Over Essentially Uncontrollable Forces. There Will Always Be Propelling, Disturbing Elements, And They Will Be There Until, As Lowell Put It, The Watch Is Taken From The Wrist.

It Was As If My Father Had Given Me, By Way Of Temperament, An Impossibly Wild, Dark, And Unbroken Horse. It Was A Horse Without A Name, And A Horse With No Experience Of A Bit Between Its Teeth. My Mother Taught Me To Gentle It; Gave Me The Discipline And Love To Break It; And- As Alexander Had Known So Intuitively With Bucephalus- She Understood, And Taught Me, That The Beast Was Best Handled By Turning It Toward The Sun.