Of all the usual labels with which our culture categorizes works of literature, like “science,” “philosophy,” or “fiction,” maybe the one that best characterizes the work you now have in your hands is simply art. But “a kind of art whose medium is ideas; an art form that, although expressed in words like a work of fiction, engages in intense flirtation with the here and now; so intense in fact that, as in an obsessive love affair, it seeks to dissolve the boundaries between itself and the object of its affection. Such an art form thrives in the possibility that it is one with reality.” (Chapter 11) Its products are born in the innermost recesses of one’s own mind, where one witnesses the unspeakable and wonders: “Perhaps the apparently fixed mechanisms of nature are merely an epiphenomenon; an emergent property of the sympathetic harmonization of different imaginations, imagination itself being the true primary substance of reality. Perhaps the laws of physics can themselves be reduced to a fundamental metaphysics of psyche.” (Chapter 7)