Quotes About Complexity

The truth is usually somewhere in the gray turbulent eddies set in motion by the mixture of black and white.

There are no whole truths. All truths are half-truths. It is trying to treat them as whole truths that plays the devil.

When a truth is necessary, the reason for it can be found by analysis, that is, by resolving it into simpler ideas and truths until the primary ones are reached.

To understand the future of technology, we need to begin with one fundamental truth: Technology is natural.

Truth is much like fire. Hard to understand, ever-changing.

No one answer is ever the answer.

The only simple truth is that there is nothing simple in this complex universe. Everything relates. Everything connects

?nsano?lu nedense anlayamad??? ?eylere kötülemeye meyilli.

Prediction is very difficult, especially about the future.

The color of truth is grey.

Le vrai est trop simple, il faut y arriver toujours par le compliqué."[Letter to Armand Barbès, 12 May 1867]

There is no 'the truth, ' 'a truth'--truth is not one thing, or even a system. It is an increasing complexity.

Whatever the issue, there is always something else to be said, another voice to be heard.

Love is like falconry, he said. Don't you think that's true, Cleveland? Never say love is like anything. said Cleveland. It isn't.

it was the insoluble problems—the false leads and the cold cases—that reflected the true nature of things.

It was not what he expected from a foulmouthed flower of bohemia, but he had a feeling there was both more and less to her than that.

Can you imagine an infinite tree?...A tree whose roots snake down all the way to the bottomest bottom of everything?...if you've ever looked at a tree you've seen how its trunk divides into boughs, which divide yet again to branches, which divide into twigs, which divide again into twiglings. The whole mess splaying out in all directions, jutting and twisting and zigzagging. At the tips of the tips you might have a million tiny green shoots, scattered like the sparks of an exploding skyrocket.

the kind of person who in one moment could guess, with breathtaking coldness, at the innermost sorrow in your heart, and in the next moment turn and, with a cheery wave of farewell, march blithely through a plate-glass window, requiring twenty-two stitches in his cheek.

Do you think they were ever happy? Definitely, I said. Definitely? For sure. She went crazy. His business failed. They couldn't have children of their own. He went to prison. HRT gave her cancer. I shot his brother in the eye and then married a man who cost him his business. When were they happy? In the cracks? I said. In the cracks. Yeah.

In my experience, Detective, it's all middle game.

It seemed to me that there were an awful lot of things she had loved about this man with whom she was not in love.

He was going to the synagogue that afternoon because Uncle Ray had assured him that my grandmother would be there, and my grandfather was hoping to get into my grandmother's panties. The woman had passed through the fire without being consumed, but she had, my grandfather understood, been damaged. So he had decided that he was going to save her. Getting into her panties was a necessary first step.

From the first that was a part of his attraction to her: not her brokenness but her potential for being mended and, even more, the challenge that mending her would pose. He

But once things moved into the courthouse, they took on a different shape. Lawyers argued over interpretations and theories and procedures. Nothing seemed to move in a straight line. Justice became a labyrinth.