I’m fascinated by beauty. It is my final fortification against materialism, a barrier from reducing the world to numbers. Sam Harris’s arguments are very sound—they explain things, fill in the gaps. But atheism specializes in the details and misses the sunsets and the waterfalls and Beethoven’s Ninth and Charles Dickens.
The sky’s on fire in the west tonight
A chorus of pink, purple, blazing orange
The air pulses with meaning and—
I think of random particles,
of chance and infinite typewriters,
but no cold device could make the beauty,
nor make me understand it.