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.

Shelley and Keats were the last English poets who were at all up to date in their chemical knowledge.

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

Now, if the cooperation of some thousands of millions of cells in our brain can produce our consciousness, a true singularity, the idea becomes vastly more plausible that the cooperation of humanity, or some sections of it, may determine what Comte calls a Great Being.

Teleology is like a mistress to a biologist: he cannot live without her but he's unwilling to be seen with her in public.

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

I will jump into the river to save two brothers or eight cousins.