Einstein Library Quotes

The only thing that you absolutely have to know, is the location of the library.

The only thing you absolutely have to know is the location of the library.

Your question is the most difficult in the world. It is not a question I can answer simply with yes or no. I am not an Atheist. I do not know if I can define myself as a Pantheist. The problem involved is too vast for our limited minds. May I not reply with a parable? The human mind, no matter how highly trained, cannot grasp the universe. We are in the position of a little child, entering a huge library whose walls are covered to the ceiling with books in many different tongues. The child knows that someone must have written those books. It does not know who or how. It does not understand the languages in which they are written. The child notes a definite plan in the arrangement of the books, a mysterious order, which it does not comprehend, but only dimly suspects. That, it seems to me, is the attitude of the human mind, even the greatest and most cultured, toward God. We see a universe marvelously arranged, obeying certain laws, but we understand the laws only dimly. Our limited minds cannot grasp the mysterious force that sways the constellations. I am fascinated by Spinoza's Pantheism. I admire even more his contributions to modern thought. Spinoza is the greatest of modern philosophers, because he is the first philosopher who deals with the soul and the body as one, not as two separate things.

We are in the position of a little child entering a huge library, whose walls are covered to the ceiling with books in many different languages. The child knows that someone must have written those books. It does not know who or how. It does not understand the the languages in which they are written. The child notes a definite plan in the arrangement of the books, a mysterious order, which it does not comprehend but only dimly suspects.

We are in the position of a little child, entering a huge library whose walls are covered to the ceiling with books in many different tongues. The child knows that someone must have written those books. It does not know who or how. It does not understand the languages in which they are written. The child notes a definite plan in the arrangement of the books, a mysterious order, which it does not comprehend, but only dimly suspects. That, it seems to me, is the attitude of the human mind, even the greatest and most cultured, toward God. We see a universe marvelously arranged, obeying certain laws, but we understand the laws only dimly. Our limited minds cannot grasp the mysterious force that sways the constellations.

The only thing that you absolutely have to know, is the location of the library

The only thing you absolutely have to know, is the location of the library.

The only thing you have to absolutely know is the location of the library.

True human progress is based less on the inventive mind than on the conscience of such men as Brandeis. ~ Albert Einstein

The only thing that you absolutely have to know is the location of the library

the only thing that you absolutely have to know, is the location of the library.

THE ONLY THING YOU ABSOLUTELY HAVE TO KNOW IS THE LOCATION OF THE LIBRARY. —Albert Einstein

Science without epistemology is – insofar as it is thinkable at all – primitive and muddled.

THE ONLY THING YOU ABSOLUTELY HAVE TO KNOW IS THE LOCATION OF THE LIBRARY. —Albert Einstein

The only thing that you absolutely have to know is the location of the library.

Albert Einstein believed that someone who had never made a mistake was someone who had never tried anything new,

The law of conservation of energy, reborn as the law of conservation of mass/energy, has established itself as one of the few unshakable theoretical guideposts in the wilderness of the world of our sense experiences. In scope and generality it surpasses Newton's laws of motion, Maxwell's equations for electricity and magnetism, and even Einstein's potent little E=mc². It comes as close to an absolute truth as our uncertain age will permit.

In a paper he wrote in the spring of 1907, he began by exuding a joyful self-assurance about having neither the library nor the inclination to know what other theorists had written on the topic. “Other authors might have already clarified part of what I am going to say,” he wrote. “I felt I could dispense with doing a literature search (which would have been very troublesome for me), especially since there is good reason to hope that others will fill this gap.

This picture of matter curving space and curvaceous space dictating how matter and light will move has several striking features. It brings the non-Euclidean geometries that we talked about in the last chapter out from the library of pure mathematics into the arena of science. The vast collection of geometries describing spaces that are not simply the flat space of Euclid are the ones that Einstein used to capture the possible structures of space distorted by the presence of mass and energy.

I’m not an atheist. The problem involved is too vast for our limited minds. We are in the position of a little child entering a huge library filled with books in many languages. The child knows someone must have written those books. It does not know how. It does not understand the languages in which they are written. The child dimly suspects a mysterious order in the arrangement of the books but doesn’t know what it is. That, it seems to me, is the attitude of even the most intelligent human being toward God. We see the universe marvelously arranged and obeying certain laws but only dimly understand these laws.” Is

I'm not an atheist, and I don't think I can call myself a pantheist. We are in the position of a little child entering a huge library filled with books in many languages. The child knows someone must have written those books. It does not know how. It does not understand the languages in which they are written. The child dimly suspects a mysterious order in the arrangement of the books but doesn't know what it is. That, it seems to me, is the attitude of even the most intelligent human being toward God. We see the universe marvelously arranged and obeying certain laws but only dimly understand these laws. ― Albert Einstein

The human mind, no matter how highly trained, cannot grasp the universe. We are in the position of a little child, entering a huge library whose walls are covered to the ceiling with books in many different tongues. The child knows that someone must have written those books. It does not know who or how. It does not understand the languages in which they are written. The child notes a definite plan in the arrangement of the books, a mysterious order, which it does not comprehend, but only dimly suspects. That, it seems to me, is the attitude of the human mind, even the greatest and most cultured, toward God. We see a universe marvelously arranged, obeying certain laws, but we understand the laws only dimly. Our limited minds cannot grasp the mysterious force that sways the constellations.

In 1953, Charles Hapgood had developed his theory of crustal displacement.  He argued that the Earth had undergone multiple displacements of land as a result of the movement of a liquid core one hundred miles underneath the surface.  Rather than the slow process of continental drift, which split lands apart, crustal displacement could move large bodies of land together and quickly.  In line with his theory, he argued that Atlantis had never truly disappeared but just moved south, where it was renamed Antarctica.  Hapgood’s theory would explain one extraordinary fact about the continent of Antarctica: evidence indicated that at one point in its history, it had a much warmer climate, free from ice.  Hapgood’s theory was scorned by a number of prominent scientists, but Dr. Hapgood had garnered at least one well-known supporter: Albert Einstein.

Close to forty thousand Germans gathered in front of Berlin’s opera house on May 10, 1933, as a parade of swastika-wearing students and beer-hall thugs carrying torches tossed books into a huge bonfire. Ordinary citizens poured forth carrying volumes looted from libraries and private homes. “Jewish intellectualism is dead,” propaganda minister Joseph Goebbels, his face fiery, yelled from the podium. “The German soul can again express itself.” What happened in Germany in 1933 was not just a brutality perpetrated by thuggish leaders and abetted by ignorant mobs. It was also, as Einstein described, “the utter failure of the so-called intellectual aristocracy.” Einstein and other Jews were ousted from what had been among the world’s greatest citadels of open-minded inquiry, and those who remained did little to resist. It represented the triumph of the ilk of Philipp Lenard, Einstein’s longtime anti-Semitic baiter, who was named by Hitler to be the new chief of Aryan science. “We must recognize that it is unworthy of a German to be the intellectual follower of a Jew,” Lenard exulted that May. “Heil Hitler!” It would be a dozen years before Allied troops would fight their way in and oust him from that role.41 Le

But how could she have forgotten who he was—a man who could lose himself in a single book, not to mention a world-class, open-stack library, for hours on end?

Speed is measured as distance divided by time (miles per hour or meters per second). For the speed of light to remain constant, distance and time have to change. Let’s go back now to Galileo’s shipboard experiment, using a beam of light instead of a stone. On a boat that’s moving at a uniform speed across the water, shine a flashlight down the mast, and it will strike the deck at the base of the mast. The observer on the dock agrees with that. But from her vantage point on the dock, if she had a precision measuring tool, she would see the light travel a tiny extra distance, the distance the ship has moved in the time it took the light to reach the bottom of the mast. Brought to you by | University of Wisconsin Madison Libraries Authenticated Download Date | 5/11/19 3:47 PM 12 • GRAVITY’S CENTURY But the speed of light, which is measured in meters per second—again, distance divided by time—is a constant. So if the observer on the dock finds that light traveled an extra distance, the only way its speed can remain constant is if the light also took a longer time to travel. Time, therefore, is not immutable. The duration of time— measured as the ticks of a clock—is dif­ferent for observers who move at dif­ferent speeds. Each sees the other’s clock slow down. Even more strangely, distance is not absolute either; it appears to contract in the direction of motion.

Only instead of running off a cliff and drowning in the sea, it’s managed to stick around long enough to cover its tracks.” “Okay,” Lucas said, in carefully measured tones, “but how would it do that?” She frowned like a teacher whose student is proving slow to grasp a simple lesson. “By stealing its own bones back, for a start,” she said, raising one finger. “By incinerating the film,” she said, raising another. “By murdering people like my father”—a third—“and by killing even its own servants, once they’ve outlived their usefulness.” Andy Brandt. “And, finally, by luring me out of my carrel, chasing me through the library and trying to scare me to death, before destroying all the proof I’d gathered in there.

a transcription of a prophecy from an ancient account of Christianity’s earliest saints; the book itself had come from the personal library of one of the university’s eighteenth-century presidents, the Scottish clergyman and theologian, John Witherspoon. Though the sentiments sounded like something from the book of Revelations, the words were attributed to none other than “the Holy Desert Anchorite,” a reference, quite plainly, to Saint Anthony of Egypt. “And there, in the barren soil of sand, home to snakes and scorpions, the seeds of destruction shall be planted and grow.

Between the health care that we have now and the health care that we could have lies not just a gap, but a chasm. —Committee on Quality of Health Care in America, Institute of Medicine, 2001 We can’t solve problems by using the same kind of thinking we used when we created them. —Albert Einstein

The only thing that you absolutely have to know, is the location of the library.

The Only Woman in the Room, The Mystery of Mrs. Christie, Carnegie's Maid, The Other Einstein, and Lady Clementine. All have been translated into multiple languages. She lives in Pittsburgh with her family.  Victoria Christopher Murray is an acclaimed author with more than one million books in print. She has written more than twenty novels, including Stand Your Ground, an NAACP Image Award Winner for Outstanding Fiction and a Library Journal Best Book of the Year.

I had no idea that this was happening―not only in the Einstein library but in college and public libraries all over the country. I was horrified when I visited the library recently and found the shelves, once overflowing, now sparsely occupied. Over the last years, most of the books, it seems, have been thrown out, with remarkably little objection from anyone. I felt that a murder, a crime had been committed: the destruction of centuries of knowledge. Seeing my distress, a librarian reassured me that everything 'of worth' had been digitized. But I do not use a computer, and I am deeply saddened by the loss of books, even bound periodicals, for there is something irreplaceable about a physical book: its look, its smell, its heft. I thought of how the library once cherished 'old' books, had a special room for old and rare books; and how in 1967, rummaging through the stacks, I had found an 1873 book, Edward Liveing's Megrim, which inspired me to write my own first book.

Our universe is so complex that we often get lost in the details. Even Einstein admitted the limitations to our understanding: “[Looking at creation] we are in the position of a little child entering a huge library filled with books in many languages. The child knows someone must have written those books. It does not know how. It does not understand the languages in which they are written. The child dimly suspects a mysterious order in the arrangement of the books but doesn’t know what it is. That, it seems to me, is the attitude of even the most intelligent human being toward God.

The idea that the same amount of heat causes a greater change of entropy in a cold place than a hot one can seem strange. But consider this as an analogy: A noisy, crowded pub is next to a quiet library. Five rowdy people leave the pub. The din drops but by an indiscernible amount. The five stumble into the library. The noisiness there increases noticeably. When a group of raucous people enter a quiet place, the increase in disruption there is much greater than its fall in the boisterous place from which they came.

A withered woman sits in a chair hardly moving, her face red and swollen, her eyesight almost gone, her hearing gone, her breathing scratchy like the rustle of dead leaves on stones. Years pass. There are few visitors. Gradually, the woman gains strength, eats more, loses the heavy lines in her face. She hears voices, music. Vague shadows gather themselves into light and lines and images of tables, chairs, people’s faces. The woman makes excursions from her small house, goes to the market, occasionally visits a friend, drinks tea at cafés in good weather. She takes needles and yarn from the bottom drawer of her dresser and crochets. She smiles when she likes her work. One day her husband, with whitened face, is carried into her house. In hours, his cheeks become pink, he stands stooped over, straightens out, speaks to her. Her house becomes their house. They eat meals together, tell jokes, laugh. They travel through the country, visit friends. Her white hair darkens with brown streaks, her voice resonates with new tones. She goes to a retirement party at the gymnasium, begins teaching history. She loves her students, argues with them after class. She reads during her lunch hour and at night. She meets friends and discusses history and current events. She helps her husband with the accounts at his chemist’s store, walks with him at the foot of the mountains, makes love to him. Her skin becomes soft, her hair long and brown, her breasts firm. She sees her husband for the first time in the library of the university, returns his glances. She attends classes. She graduates from the gymnasium, with her parents and sister crying tears of happiness. She lives at home with her parents, spends hours with her mother walking through the woods by their house, helps with the dishes. She tells stories to her younger sister, is read to at night before bed, grows smaller. She crawls. She nurses.

I'm not an atheist. The problem involved is too vast for our limited minds. We are in the position of a little child entering a huge library filled with books in many languages. The child knows someone must have written those books. It does not know how. It does not understand the languages in which they were written. The child dimly suspects a mysterious order in the arrangement of the books but does not know what it is. That, it seems to me, is the attitude of even the most intelligent human being towards God. We see the universe marvelously arranged and obeying certain laws but only dimly understand these laws.

The only thing you absolutely have to know is the location of the library.” Albert Einstein

Democritus’s atomic theory did, however, come down to us—but on a very slender thread: it was contained in one single volume of Lucretius’s great poem, which was held in one single German library, which one single intrepid book hunter would eventually find and save from extinction. That single volume would have an astonishing afterlife: it became a literary sensation, returned atomism to European thought, created what Stephen Greenblatt has called “an explosion of interest in pagan antiquity” and influenced Newton, Galileo and later Einstein.

Although our family library contained many books—Papa believed that it was everyone’s duty to become educated, even if his or her upbringing, like his own, did not provide a formal education—I returned to this collection of folk and fairy tales over and over.

Despite the short amount of time he had been ensconced at the library—courtesy, again, of his daughter’s clever maneuverings—everything he had gleaned so far had only exacerbated his fears and suspicions. Many of the papyri referred to a period, roughly three hundred years after the death of Christ, in which the barbarous Roman emperor Diocletian had initiated what was commonly known as the Great Persecution. It was from this era that most of the well-known stories of Christians martyred in the arena to ravenous beasts, of saints being roasted over slow fires, of endless roads lined with teetering crosses bearing the bodies of the crucified, sprang. Diocletian himself had come to Egypt on one of his triumphal tours, and in Alexandria had torn down all of the Christian churches and burned thousands of holy texts. Anyone who refused to renounce this new and traitorous faith had had his right eye put out with a sword, and the tendons on his left foot severed, before he was enslaved and shipped off to die in the copper mines. “In these conflicts,” according to a scroll Dr. Rashid attributed to the church polemicist Eusebius, “the noble martyrs of Christ shone illustrious over the entire world . . . and the evidences of the truly divine and unspeakable power of our Saviour were made manifest through them.

It is, in fact, nothing short of a miracle that the modern methods of instruction have not yet entirely strangled the holy curiosity of inquiry; for this delicate little plant, aside from stimulation, stands mainly in need of freedom; without this it goes to wreck and ruin without fail.