My Practise As A Scientist Is Atheistic.

Science Is As Yet In Its Infancy, And We Can Foretell Little Of The Future Save That The Thing That Has Not Been Is The Thing That Shall Be; That No Beliefs, No Values, No Institutions Are Safe.

I Have Come To The Conclusion That My Subjective Account Of My Motivation Is Largely Mythical On Almost All Occasions. I Don't Know Why I Do Things.

I Have Tried To Show Why I Believe That The Biologist Is The Most Romantic Figure On Earth At The Present Day. At First Sight He Seems To Be Just A Poor Little Scrubby Underpaid Man, Groping Blindly Amid The Mazes Of The Ultra-microscopic, Engaging In Bitter And Lifelong Quarrels Over The Nephridia Of Flatworms, Waking Perhaps One Morning To Find That Someone Whose Name He Has Never Heard Has Demolished By A Few Crucial Experiments The Work Which He Had Hoped Would Render Him Immortal.

Religion Is Still Parasitic In The Interstices Of Our Knowledge Which Have Not Yet Been Filled. Like Bed-bugs In The Cracks Of Walls And Furniture, Miracles Lurk In The Lacunae Of Science. The Scientist Plasters Up These Cracks In Our Knowledge; The More Militant Rationalist Swats The Bugs In The Open. Both Have Their Proper Sphere And They Should Realize That They Are Allies.

There Are 400,000 Species Of Beetles On This Planet, But Only 8,000 Species Of Mammals.