“A white doe in the green grass of a glade Appeared to me with two horns made of gold . . .” —Petrarch All joy, being considered in its truth, Has in it both the terrible and good. You will not know the beauty of the deer Until you’ve lain her low within the wood. All joy, being rejected for its pain, Has in it both the brutal and the kind. You will not know the virtuous or wise Until you purge perfection from your mind. This poem appears concurrently in Paul’s new collection from Wiseblood Books, The Locust Years.
There's nothing Artificial about our Intelligence