What one man can think, another man can do.

Man is never perfect nor contented.

Trains, like time and tide, stop for no one.

Science, my boy, is composed of errors, but errors that it is right to make, for they lead step by step to the truth.

In presence of Nature's grand convulsions man is powerless.

When I returned to partial life my face was wet with tears. How long that state of insensibility had lasted I cannot say. I had no means now of taking account of time. Never was solitude equal to this, never had any living being been so utterly forsaken.

Everything is possible for an eccentric, especially when he is English.