In the mornings, I hunger for the wisdom of sages. So many disappoint. I have heard the flatulence peculiar to them — even adored it — but it waxes tired over time. There are so few whose ideas actually surpass themselves, and set us not on the paths of emulation or adulation — but of discovery. Shocking, world-shaking revelation, learning, and insight. In the mornings, I hunger for the words of wise teachers so dearly that I often become them, myself, in their absence. But today, my dusty old tome, the intellectual’s version of a strange form of bible, a volume both erudite and mystical, does not disappoint. How could one man have written Science and Sanity? The answer is simple: he was never a man, and he never wrote.