I have tried to show why I believe that the biologist is the most romantic figure on earth at the present day. At first sight he seems to be just a poor little scrubby underpaid man, groping blindly amid the mazes of the ultra-microscopic, engaging in bitter and lifelong quarrels over the nephridia of flatworms, waking perhaps one morning to find that someone whose name he has never heard has demolished by a few crucial experiments the work which he had hoped would render him immortal.

In fact, words are well adapted for description and the arousing of emotion, but for many kinds of precise thought other symbols are much better.

To the biologist the problem of socialism appears largely as a problem of size.

If human beings could be propagated by cutting, like apple trees, aristocracy would be biologically sound.

It wasn't until I had performed by first autopsy that I realized that even the drabest human exteriors could contain the most beautiful viscera. After that, I would console myself for the plainness of my fellow bus-riders by dissecting them in my imagination.

So far from being an isolated phenomenon the late war is only an example of the disruptive result that we may constantly expect from the progress of science.

Christianity is haunted by the theory of a God with a craving for bloody sacrifices.