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Updated: June 10, 2025
You remember those lines that Tennyson sang very beautifully, I always think: Flower in the crannied wall, I pluck you out of the crannies; Hold you here, root and all, in my hand, Little Flower but if I could understand What you art, root and all, and all in all, I should know what God and man is. Beautiful confession! Absolutely true.
Just as the comprehensive explanation of 'the flower in the crannied wall' is the explanation of the whole universe, so every question is but a thin layer of ice over infinite depths. You may touch it lightly, you may skate over it; but press it at all, and you sink into bottomless abysses.
Flower in the crannied wall, I pluck you out of the crannies. I hold you here, root and all, in my hand, Little flower—but if I could understand What you are, root and all, and all in all, I should know what God and man is.—TENNYSON.
You hear, mamma, how fancy Gina Berg? We go hear her, eh?" There was about Miss Gina Berg, whose voice could soar to the tirra-lirra of a lark and then deepen to mezzo, something of the actual slimness of the poor, maligned Elsa so long buried beneath the buxomness of divas. She was like a little flower that in its crannied nook keeps dewy longest. "How do you do, Leon Kantor?"
You hear, mamma, how fancy Gina Berg? We go hear her, eh?" There was about Miss Gina Berg, whose voice could soar to the tirra-lirra of a lark and then deepen to mezzo, something of the actual slimness of the poor, maligned Elsa so long buried beneath the buxomness of divas. She was like a little flower that in its crannied nook keeps dewy longest. "How do you do, Leon Kantor?"
The flower in the crannied wall would express the same thing as the bust of Caesar or the Critique of Pure Reason.
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