Probably, bubbling somewhere just below the surface in the turbid soup of my creative subconsciousness, this famous, beautiful line was making its contribution to the little poem in my last post:
I do not know what I may appear to the world; but to myself I seem to have been only like a boy playing on the seashore, and diverting myself in now and then finding a smoother pebble or a prettier shell than ordinary, whilst the great ocean of truth lay all undiscovered before me.
Isaac Newton (1642–1727)
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