I do not know what I may appear to the world, but to myself I seem to have been only like a boy playing on the sea-shore, and diverting myself in now and then finding a smoother pebble or a prettier shell than ordinary, whilst the great ocean of truth lay all undiscovered before me. – Isaac Newton (1642–1727), spoken the evening before his death

A whirl of torrid dust veils the picture. – Vladimir Nabokov, The Gift, 1963, translated from Russian by Michael Scammell