Among the millions of nerve cells that clothe parts of the brain there runs a thread. It is the thread of time, the thread that has run through each succeeding wakeful hour of the individual.

Although the content of consciousness depends in large measure on neuronal activity, awareness itself does not.To me, it seems more and more reasonable to suggest that the mind may be a distinct and different essence.

In spite of all these disquieting triumphs in the field of natural science, it's astonishing how little man has learned about himself, and how much there is to learn. How little we know about this brain which made social evolution possible, and of the mind. How little we know of the nature and spirit of man and God. We stand now before this inner frontier of ignorance. If we could pass it, we might well discover the meaning of life and understand man's destiny.

The brain is the organ of destiny. It holds within its humming mechanism secrets that will determine the future of the human race.

Rest, with nothing else, results in rust. It corrodes the mechanisms of the brain. The rhubarb that no one picks goes to seed.

Brain surgery is a terrible profession. If I did not feel it will become different in my lifetime, I should hate it.

Canadian weather resembles a slightly spoiled beautiful girl with a good heart, but a bad disposition. After being horrid for much too long a time, she suddenly turns right about and makes up for everything with so much charm that you vow again you always loved her!