Between left and right, between science and religion, between self and world, there runs a tiny little crack, invisible to all the heavy arguments of either side, but into which the small quiet spirit slips and finds itself in a world—no, a universe—of strange mad wonder, in which all great philosophies are reconciled and from which all great ideas and feelings and acts and creations spring like mushrooms from a spore, like palm-trees from an oasis, like gods from the head of Zeus. Here, in this slender eternity, there is truth as hard and useful as brass, and yet, when you reach out for it, it flashes into a smoky spirit and flies away. It’s not to be possessed.