The freedom to know, to choose, to turn outward or inward, is the substructure of a mind healthy in its breathing. Cut off from freedom, the mind rebels, reconstructing reality, growing, fostering in acridity, for it is against its wandering, curious nature, a sort of cruel starvation. So, the mut bites, lurches at its captors — to show them they are not as gods and to project what it feels like to be a beast, cornered.
To restrict the font of knowing is nearly oppression without flaw, for it maddens its subjects, yet it undoes itself steadily, constantly, quietly, as it fashions repressed who have less and less to lose until all that is left to lose is nothing, and control expires.
Faith, Health, and Other Musings 