THE things I know are jumbled and tangled into an indescribable heap inside me.
The things I Don't Know are separated and ranged of their own volition in long orderly rows in my conscious mentality.
The things I know glow with tints and gleams and will-o'-wisp lights and primal colors and waveringly with the blinding gold-purple lightnings of all-Time.
The things I Don't Know glow—each one separately—with a small precise lantern-brightness of its own.
Also in my wide background are things I don't know and am unaware of it: the mass of my luminous Ignorance—it shines with an earthy phosphorescence.
When I look at the things I know I get an undetailed perspective of me like a bird's-eye view of London.
When I look at neat formal rows of things I Don't Know I have a clear look, as if through an uncurtained window into a bare little room, at my quietest self sitting knitting or plaiting straw.
I reckon up and count up and check up lists of big and little things I Don't Know—like this, rapidly:
I Don't Know what ink is made of, nor how to fire a Maxim gun: I don't know how to make a will: I don't know how to cook a prairie-chicken, nor what to feed a pet weasel, nor who invented the snarling-
