This human, who was named Lance, spends his free time pacing about his home chiseling away at creative endeavors. He is unable to exhume much pleasure from the contemporary world, and finds history to be a reliable source for when he is in need of a muse. Also, if you have not read William Faulkner he would recommend you do. Regardless of his interests, he loves to hear what other people think. He sees it as a pleasant retreat from his internal studies. So, if spotted within the bookshelves, feel free to include him in on your search for the words which entice you. He is always game for a good hunt.
Mr. Wilczek has hijacked my brain, guiding me straight into the depths of an eternal rabbit hole that is infinitesimal in nature. The drop is swift- endless. Nothing can be seen through these meager senses aside from the fading remnants of humanity's feeble contrivance. Yet, all is well. Although Wilczek plainly exposes us to the mockery that is our own significance, he makes up for it by comforting us with the simplicity hidden deep within the complex of what we perceive as reality. Here we are, continuously seeking out connections in a state of progressive decay, hopelessly bound to never deplete our ever expanding lack of understanding. We should be happy to know that the abundance of worthwhile inquiry will never be exhausted. Wilczek is enthralled by this, and his enthusiasm for the continuum is obnoxiously contagious.
March along as Oskar taps out his life atop a tin drum. Pounding away rhythmic diatribes of a refusal to let nature force him out of adolescence, the eternal three-year-old meanders through his mother's conception in a Kashubian potato field, off into Danzig before and after WWII. Hear him reminisce on a moth upon his first exposure to experience outside the womb. See, stream down to a solemn beat, the tears of Poland as an invasion by Germany roars through swinging to "Jimmy the Tiger". This depiction of dilution and confusion during the dilapidating rise and fall of the Third Reich is vivid; conjuring up a sense of pristine confidence in the midst of what should seem inconceivable. Guided by his literary mentors, Rasputin and Goethe, Oskar composes the tale of his people's travail in intoxicating movements which never go pale.