For Reich, science contained all the poetry of life, and the past merely happened to be the field in which he exercised his ability. As to myself, science was a servant of poetry.
All science has one aim, namely, to find a theory of nature.
It isn't only art that's incompatible with happiness; it's also science. Science is dangerous; we have to keep it most carefully chained and muzzled.
At base, science is no more than an investigation of a miracle we can never explain, and art is an interpretation of that miracle.
Science ran too far ahead of us too quickly, and the people got lost in a mechanical wilderness, like children making over pretty things, gadgets, helicopters, rockets; emphasizing the wrong items, emphasizing machines instead of how to run the machines.
The sheer size of the task overawed us. Yet it did not depress us. No scientist could be depressed at the prospect of endless discovery.