I want to write novels. I want to write stories. I want to do the stuff that I became a writer to do.
It is the large brain capacity which allows man to live as a human being, enjoy taxes, canned salmon, television, and the atomic bomb.
Man did not address his inquiries to the earth on which he stood until a remarkably late stage in the development of his desire for knowledge. And the answers he received to the questions, "Where do I come from?", "What is man?", although they made him poorer by a few illusions, gave him in compensation a knowledge of his past that is vaster than he could ever have dreamed. For it emerged that the history of life was his history too.
These are the experiences I wish to record in this book, which should really be called The Diary of a Palaeontologist. But in committing them to paper I found it advisable to alter and add a good deal, to enable the reader without specialized training to follow me along the winding paths of palaeontology and prehistory.
Man's greatness does not consist in being different from the animals that share the earth with him, but in being. . . conscious of things of which his environment has no inkling.
You get to know who you really are in a crisis.
It is much better to learn to deal with the ills we have now than to speculate on those that may befall us.
Wear a towel instead of a coat, it’s very chic. Or your husband’s boxer shorts with a belt, or something from your grandmother. It’s all about do-it-yourself at the moment.
I sometimes read books on my iPad.