"Truth," wise men tell us, "is stranger than fiction." Even a child like you will see that it must be so, if you will but recollect who makes fiction, and who makes facts.
Man makes fiction: he invents stories, pretty enough, fantastical enough.
But out of what does he make them up?
Out of a few things in this great world which he has seen, and heard, and felt, just as he makes up his dreams.

But who makes truth?
Who makes facts?
Who, but God?
Then truth is as much larger than fiction, as God is greater than man; as much larger as the whole universe is larger than the little corner of it that any man, even the greatest poet or philosopher, can see; and as much grander, and as much more beautiful, and as much more strange.

For one is the whole, and the other is one, a few tiny scraps of the whole.

The one is the work of God; the other is the work of man.

Be sure that no man can ever fancy anything strange, unexpected, and curious, without finding if he had eyes to see, a hundred things around his feet more strange, more unexpected, more curious, actually ready-made already by God.