Poetry is a sort of truancy, a dream within the dream of life, a wild flower planted among our wheat.
Man please thy maker and be merry set not for this world a cherry.
Poetry is a sort of truancy, a dream within the dream of life, a wild flower planted among our wheat.
Fifty years ago Kurt Gödel... proved that the world of pure mathematics is inexhaustible. … I hope that the notion…
We have heard a lot about anger against elites - and I think that anger has a certain shape it’s…
The Catch Forget the long smouldering afternoon. It is this moment when the ball scoots of the edge of the…