“Penicillin cures, but wine makes people happy.”

One sometimes finds what one is not looking for.

Nature makes penicillin; I just found it.

It was astonishing that for some considerable distance around the mould growth the staphococcal colonies were undergoing lysis. What had formerly been a well-grown colony was now a faint shadow of its former self…I was sufficiently interested to pursue the subject.

One sometimes finds what one is not looking for. When I woke up just after dawn on Sept. 28, 1928, I certainly didn’t plan to revolutionize all medicine by discovering the world’s first antibiotic, or bacteria killer. But I guess that was exactly what I did.

Suggested remedy for the common cold: A good gulp of whiskey at bedtime-it’s not very scientific, but it helps.

Penicillin sat on a shelf for ten years while I was called a quack.

The unprepared mind cannot see the outstretched hand of opportunity.

If penicillin can cure those that are ill, Spanish sherry can bring the dead back to life.

It is the lone worker who makes the first advance in a subject: the details may be worked out by a team, but the prime idea is due to the enterprise, thought, and perception of an individual.

For the birth of something new, there has to be a happening. Newton saw an apple fall; James Watt watched a kettle boil; Roentgen fogged some photographic plates. And these people knew enough to translate ordinary happenings into something new.

(The discovery of penicillin) was a triumph of accident, a fortunate occurrence which happened while I was working on a purely academic bacteriological problem.

I play with microbes. There are, of course, many rules to this play…but when you have acquired knowledge and experience it is very pleasant to break the rules and to be able to find something nobody has thought of.

I tell patients that tranquilizers alone never cure anyone.

I too searched far and wide for the cure to addiction, but my medical and psychiatric background did not lead me to the cure because the source of addiction does not lie here,.

Solitude is a necessary protest to the incursions and the false alarms of society’s hysteria, a period of cure and recovery.

We burned with love for ourselves, all of us, starters of the fire we suffered- our love was the affliction for which only our love was the cure.

But love’s a malady without a cure.

Of all ills that one endures, hope is a cheap and universal cure.

It’s a poor doctor who can’t cure one disease without giving you another.

Real pain can alone cure us of imaginary ills.