THOUGHTS FROM WRITINGS 



dim white light of the dawn speaks it. 

 This prophet which has come with its 

 wonders to the bedside of every human 

 being- for so many thousands of years 

 faces me once again with the upheld 

 finger of light. Where is the limit to 

 that physical sign ? — ' The Story of my 

 Heart.' 



AT present the endeavour to 

 make discoveries is like gaz- 

 ^ ing at the sky up through the 

 boughs of an oak. 



Here a beautiful star shines clearly; 

 here a constellation is hidden by a 

 branch; a universe by a leaf. Some 

 mental instrument or organon is required 

 to enable us to distinguish between the 

 leaf which may be removed and a real 

 void: when to cease to look in one 

 direction, and to work in another. — * The 

 Story of my Heart.' 



46 



