Soap Bubbles and the Forces Which Mould Them by C.V. Boys, Doubleday Anchor, 1959
The outside of a liquid acts as if it were an elastic skin, which will, as far as it is able, so mould the liquid within it that it shall be as small as possible. Generally the weight of liquids, especially when there is a large quantity, is too much for the feebly elastic skin, and its power may not be noticed.
Soap Bubbles and the Forces Which Mould Them by C.V. Boys, Doubleday Anchor, 1959 An experiment is not a conjuring trick, something simply to make you wonder, nor is it simply shown because it is beautiful, or because it serves to relieve the monotony of a lecture; if any of the experiments I show are beautiful, or do serve to make these lectures a little less dull, so much the better; but their chief object is to enable you to see for yourselves what the true answers are to questions that I shall ask.
Soap Bubbles and the Forces Which Mould Them by C.V. Boys, Doubleday Anchor, 1959 There is one more thing I would like to explain, and that is why I am going to show experiments at all. You will at once answer because it would be so dreadfully dull if I didn't. Perhaps it would. But that is not the only reason. I would remind you then that when we want to find out anything that we do not know, there are two ways of proceeding. We may either ask somebody else who does know, or read what the most learned men have written about it, which is a very good plan if anybody happens to be able to answer our question; or else we may adopt the other plan, and by arranging an experiment, try for ourselves.
Soap Bubbles and the Forces Which Mould Them by C.V. Boys, Doubleday Anchor, 1959 Even if "hasn't yet committed genocidal slaughter" is a low bar to hop, other communities haven't even managed that much. You'll give credit where it's due.
N.K. Jemisin, The Obelisk Gate II
You were silly like us; your gift survived it all: The parish of rich women, physical decay, Yourself. Mad Ireland hurt you into poetry. Now Ireland has her madness and her weather still, For poetry makes nothing happen: it survives In the valley of its making where executives Would never want to tamper, flows on south From ranches of isolation and the busy griefs, Raw towns that we believe and die in; it survives, A way of happening, a mouth. In Memory of W.B. Yeats, W.H. Auden, 1940 |
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