
We feel our way through life, then rationalize our actions, as if emotion were a shameful scar on the countenance of reason.
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We feel our way through life, then rationalize our actions, as if emotion were a shameful scar on the countenance of reason.
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The son of a nurse and a church janitor, entomologist Charles Henry Turner (February 3, 1867–February 14, 1923) died with a personal library of a thousand books, having published more than fifty scientific papers, having named his youngest son Darwin, and having revolutionized our understanding of
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In his poetic ode to the wonder of life, the physicist Richard Feynman gasped at our improbable inheritance as “atoms with consciousness” — a lovely phrase that in so few words intimates the immense superstructure of matter and meaning, the way in which the austere realities of the physical un
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