I like writing about biology, not doing it.

Science consistently produces a new crop of miraculous truths and dazzling devices every year.

There is a general place in your brain, I think, reserved for melancholy of relationships past. It grows and prospers as life progresses, forcing you finally, against your better judgment, to listen to country music.

We were fortunate to have the Russians as our childhood enemies. We practiced hiding under our desks in case they had the temerity to drop a nuclear weapon.

I'm really optimistic in the mornings.

Science grows like a weed every year.

Art is subject to arbitrary fashion.