pity this busy monster,manunkind
pity this busy monster,manunkind,
not. Progress is a comfortable disease:
your victim(death and life safely beyond)
plays with the bigness of his littleness
—electrons deify one razorblade
into a mountainrange;lenses extend
unwish through curving wherewhen till unwish
returns on itself.
……………………………… A world of made
is not a world of born—pity poor flesh
and trees, poor stars and stones,but never this
fine specimen of hypermagical
ultraomnipotence. We doctors know
a hopeless case if—listen: theere’s a hell
of a good universe next door;let’s go.
by E. E. Cummings
from Literature and the Writing Process