I guess we're all, or most of us, the wards of that nineteenth-century science which denied existence to anything it could not measure or explain. The things we couldn't explain went right on but surely not with our blessing. We did not see what we couldn't explain, and meanwhile a great part of the world was abandoned to children, insane people, fools, and mystics, who were more interested in what is then in why it is. So many old and lovely things are stored in the world's attic, because we don't want them around and we don't dare throw them out.
So I've decided that John Steinbeck is one of my favorite authors. I hesitate to say my most favorite, but I do love to read what he writes. This is a quote from The Winter of Our Discontent that has stuck with me, so I thought I would share: