Khalom

How often people speak of art and science as though they were two entirely different things, with no interconnection. An artist is emotional, they think, and uses only his intuition; he sees all at once and has no need of reason. A scientist is cold, they think, and uses only his reason; he argues carefully step by step, and needs no imagination. That is all wrong. The true artist is quite rational as well as imaginative and knows what he is doing; if he does not, his art suffers. The true scientist is quite imaginative as well as rational, and sometimes leaps to solutions where reason can follow only slowly; if he does not, his science suffers.

— Isaac Asimov

And I reflected: pick any street. Add some indefinable quality to it. Is it only by the power of sight - the vision of aspiration in eyeless things, humble things, struggling to be realized? I shall atone for them. And I reflected: an enchanting life. All in all, a mountain. Swarming with people, coming in and out like ants, making their living in the bowels of the earth. But each one of them knows: Jerusalem, thou art builded as a city that is compact together - and it is Jerusalem where I am. How singular, how wondrous, how privileged. To be so close to the central pivot of things. What a rare privilege, indeed. Everyone senses the miracle in his heart. But I, please God, when I grow up, will find out how to describe this miracle, all the miracles, in writing. I have to. Otherwise my life is no life.

— Amalia Kahana-Carmon, N’ima Sassoon Writes Poems

From Yavniel to the Sea of Galilee is an uphill climb over rough ground, through wild plumb trees and thorn bushes which tear at the eyes. I held tight to my gun in case there was someone lurking in the shadows. I reached the summit of the mountain, and there was the Sea of Galilee spread out before me like a burnished mirror, smooth and soft as silk, a pleasure to look upon. The sun was reflected in its sparkling waters and I stood wonder-struck at the sight of it. The surrounding mountains are a sullen black. Black basalt rocks are scattered about as if they have at this moment been spewed up from the centre of the earth by some erupting volcano. To the eastwards, the mountains are steep and crumpled-seeming, for the floods have scored deep gashes in their sides. They tower over Galilee like sentinels. From there I could also see the Jordan as it flows out of Kinneret - the Sea of Galilee.

— Shmuel Dayan, The Promised Land: Memoirs of Shmuel Dayan

We’re fickle, stupid beings with poor memories and a great gift for self-destruction.

— Suzanne Collins, Mockingjay