"In the Room of the Heart, Hearthmaster Jorlis had taugth that every man has two minds, the 'scant mind' and the 'deep mind'. "Jorlis had said that the scant mind was cold, logical, and rational. It knew little of love. It was the part of the mind that fretted about numbers and accounts. "But Jorlis said that every man has another mind, a deep mind. It was the part of the brain that dreamed and struggled to comprehend the world. It was the creative mind that made unexpected insights. It was the part of the mind that assured you when you'd made a right choice, or that warned against danger by sending feelings of uncertainty or fear. "Borenson had always felt skeptical of such teachings. After all, Jorlis was a bit of a pansy--a big-boned man with red cheecks and soft flesh. "But Jorlis claimed that the deep mind would ponder problems for weeks or months, independent of the scant mind, until it discovered solutions that the scant mind could never fathom. Thus, he believed that the deep mind was wiser than the scant mind. "Jorlis had said that when a man fell in love with a woman at first sight, it was a warning from the deep mind that the woman before him matched his vision of an ideal mate. "The deep mind created that image. It told a man that his perfect love would have the kindness of his aunt, and the eyes of his mother. She might treat children tenderly as a neighbor did, and have his father's sense of humor. All of these traits were then bound into an image, woven from borrowed threads into a crude tapestry. "'The recognition you feel when you meet the woman of your dreams, that rush of dizziness and thrill of discovery,' Jorlis had taught, 'is merely the deep mind speaking to you. It is warning you that it recognizes in someone some virtues that you've long sought. The deep mind is not always right, but it is always worth listening to.'" -Runelords, pages 398-399, by David Farland.
The Abyss By Robert Lowell
Pascal's abyss went with him at his side, closer than blood-- alas, activity, dreams, words, desire: all holes! On every side, spaces, the bat-wing of insanity! Above, below me, only depths and shoal, the silence! And the Lord's right arm traces his nightmare, truceless multiform. I cuddle the insensible blank air, and fear to sleep as one fears a great hole. My spirit, haunted by its vertigo, sees the infinite at every window, vague, horrible, and dropping God knows where... Ah never to escape from numbers and form.