[…]going upon the dobbin, is a woman dressed like a servant maid, no hat nor cloak on, a bunch of young dubs by her side, which are a bunch of small keys[…]

Space is a series of untouching atoms and time a succession of untouching moments.

At first glance, thinking well of yourself seems obviously preferable to thinking poorly of yourself. But the problem with […]

I can imagine, for example, constructing the argument that Poe's Purloined Letter is the locus classicus for all cryptomorphic revelations.