“Other things being equal, it is better to be smart than to be stupid.”

All civilizations become either spacefaring or extinct.

If we continue to accumulate only power and not wisdom, we will surely destroy ourselves.

Across the sea of space, the stars are other suns.

You are worth about 3 dollars worth in chemicals.

We live on a mote of dust suspended in a sunbeam.

We can judge our progress by the courage of our questions and the depth of our answers, our willingness to embrace what is true rather than what feels good.

For me, it is far better to grasp the Universe as it really is than to persist in delusion, however satisfying and reassuring.

The visions we offer our children shape the future.

Nature is unsentimental. Death is built in.

We are star stuff which has taken its destiny into its own hands.

Not explaining science seems to me perverse. When you’re in love, you want to tell the world.

Not all birds can fly. What separates the flyers from the walkers is the ability to take off.

Nature is always more subtle, more intricate, more elegant than what we are able to imagine.

When we look up at night and view the stars, everything we see is shinning because of distant nuclear fusion.

Imagination will often carry us to worlds that never were, but without it we go nowhere.

The nitrogen in our DNA, the calcium in our teeth, the iron in our blood, the carbon in our apple pies were made in the interiors of collapsing stars. We are made of starstuff.

The sophist sneers: Fool, take Thy pleasure, right or wrong! The pious wail: Forsake A world these sophists throng! Be neither saint nor sophist-led, but be a man.

To me there is nothing complicated about ordinary equality.

It is – last stage of all When we are frozen up within, and quite The phantom of ourselves To hear the world applaud the hollow ghost Which blamed the living man

The vote is the emblem of your equality, women of America, the guarantee of your liberty.

The only way for a woman, as for a man, to find herself, to know herself as a person, is by creative work of her own.

Style … is a peculiar recasting and heightening, under a certain condition of spiritual excitement, of what a man has to say, in such a manner as to add dignity and distinction to it.

Nature, with equal mind, Sees all her sons at play, Sees man control the wind, The wind sweep man away.

If an historian be an unbeliever in all heroism, if he be a man who brings every thing down to the level of a common mediocrity, depend upon it, the truth is not found in such a writer.