The woman is not just a pleasure, nor even a problem. She is a meniscus that allows the absolute to have a shape, that lets him skate however briefly on the mystery, her presence luminous on the ordinary and the grand. Like the odor at night in Pittsburgh’s empty streets after summer rain on maples and sycamore.
Where the Magic Awaits: The Worst Becomes the Absolute Best
Knowledge, understanding, and wisdom is naught to the man who is incapable of applying it.