“You forget that the attendants also saw you,” he remarked. “Cannot we trust our own eyes?”
“A common assumption, yet not always a strictly reliable one,” insinuated Carrados softly.
“I cannot be mistaken.”
“Then can you tell me, without looking, what colour Professor Bulge’s eyes are?”
There was a curious and expectant silence for a minute. The professor turned his back on the manager and the manager passed from thoughtfulness to embarrassment.
“I really do not know, Mr Carrados,” he declared loftily at last. “I do not refer to mere trifles like that.”
“Then you can be mistaken,” replied Carrados mildly yet with decision.
“What colour were his eyes?” asked Carrados.
“Upon my word, I never noticed,” admitted the other.
“Parkinson would have noticed,” was the severe comment.
“I am not Parkinson,” retorted Mr Carlyle, with asperity.
“I just … I couldn’t handle hearing about how someone’s Higher Power never gives them anything they can’t handle. If that was the case, we wouldn’t have rape or child abuse or incest or domestic violence, and people wouldn’t develop PTSD or complex trauma or crippling drug dependencies, all of which are the direct results of being given exactly what you can’t handle.”
We don’t read and write poetry because it’s cute. We read and write poetry because we are members of the human race.And human race is filled with passion.Medicine,business,engineering , law ,these all are noble pursuits and necessary to sustain life. But poetry,beauty,romance, love, these are what we stay alive for.