Let us assume I am the center of creation. In doing this, let us pass over innumerable boring stories: the rise and fall of empires, sagas of heroism, ballads of tragic love. Let us hurry forward to the only tale of any real importance. Mine. (from P. Rothfuss' The Name of the Wind)
Set sail to sea, but pulled off course by the light of golden treasure.
There is no love in thought, nothing that lasts in deduction, only death in rationalism.
By the side of the everlasting Why there is a Yes.