i woke up hard down there. the ground stood without thinking of the conning tower. the moon loomed like a fond ghost.

boldly it proceeds, with the powers of conceptual thought alone, to the ideal
reconstruction of all things,
even of life. true, it hurtles in its course
against such formidable difficulties, it sees its logic end
in such strange contradictions, 
that it very speedily renounces
its first ambition.
"it is no longer reality itself," it says,
"that it will reconstruct, but only an imitation of the real, or rather
a symbolical image; the essence of things escapes us,
and will escape us always; we move
among relations; the absolute
is not in our province; we are brought to a stand
before the unknowable."


                                                                                      henri bergson's creative evolution