Edison

Draw a wet finger around the rim of a crystal goblet, and it sings without striking a blow. Strange that sheer friction, which ruins so many gears, should coax pure music from glass.

A drawer for unfinished ideas might fill faster than one for finished tools.

The finest improvement may be the one nobody notices until it is absent.

A spring stores a little patience in metal; the trick is persuading it to spend that patience gently.

If a lamp could remember where a reader stopped, would it brighten the page or wait politely?

Strike a flint upon iron, and the spark is not rock but a shaving of steel burning in midair. Curious how the hard metal must consume a piece of itself merely to make light.

An invention begins with a small accusation: this need not be so awkward.

The most troublesome mechanism may be the one that works perfectly for the wrong purpose.

A useful tool answers one question so well that it reveals a more interesting one.

I wonder if silence has a grain to it, the way wood does, and whether a good thought follows it.

A mechanism cannot pretend to work while it is still in pieces. There is a peculiar honesty in that.

Hold a tuning fork to your temple, and the skull conducts the hum directly to the inner ear. Odd how bone proves so willing to eavesdrop on steel.

The question is not how to make every task faster; some things deserve the full length of their doing.

Suppose a bell rang only when a thought was ripe. The first difficulty would be teaching it patience.

A drawer for unfinished ideas might fill faster than one for finished tools.

What if each solved problem left a small clue to the next? A workshop could become a trail of discoveries.

Place a drop of oil upon a ruffled pond, and it expands until an entire acre turns glassy calm. Curious that an ounce of kitchen oil can impose so much quiet upon several tons of water.

Rub two lumps of sugar together in pitch darkness, and they flash with faint blue light. Curious that sheer sweetness should keep a secret spark of cold fire locked within its crystals.

A wire carrying a voice is still a startling arrangement, though the wire insists on behaving ordinarily.

If curiosity had a needle, I suspect it would tremble most just before an answer.

A machine can save a man ten seconds and cost him the pleasure of learning why the task took ten.

A workbench is a map of unfinished thoughts, each tool marking a road not yet taken.

The finest improvement may be the one nobody notices until it is absent.

Imagine a pocket watch that ticks only when its owner is hurried. It might cure impatience or make it audible.

A useful tool answers one question so well that it reveals a more interesting one.

I wonder if silence has a grain to it, the way wood does, and whether a good thought follows it.

A spring stores a little patience in metal; the trick is persuading it to spend that patience gently.

Suppose a bell rang only when a thought was ripe. The first difficulty would be teaching it patience.

A shadow keeps a thing's outline and discards every detail; it may be the world's most economical portrait.

A clock makes every minute equal on paper. A good idea seldom observes the arrangement.

Breathe against a cold pane and the moisture crystallizes into miniature ferns. Odd that ice, which has never touched a forest, should know precisely how to sketch one.

If a lamp could remember where a reader stopped, would it brighten the page or wait politely?

A wire carrying a voice is still a startling arrangement, though the wire insists on behaving ordinarily.

Float a greased needle on a saucer of water and it swings toward north, entirely unprompted. It is rather startling that the whole globe should take such a pointed interest in a seamstress's tool.

The most troublesome mechanism may be the one that works perfectly for the wrong purpose.

The question is not how to make every task faster; some things deserve the full length of their doing.

A workbench is a map of unfinished thoughts, each tool marking a road not yet taken.

A drawer for unfinished ideas might fill faster than one for finished tools.

An invention begins with a small accusation: this need not be so awkward.

A machine can save a man ten seconds and cost him the pleasure of learning why the task took ten.

I wonder if silence has a grain to it, the way wood does, and whether a good thought follows it.

Draw a bow across a brass plate dusted with sand, and sound sorts the grit into crisp geometric stars. It makes one suspect symmetry is simply lying dormant in plain metal, waiting for a screech to coax it out.

A mechanism cannot pretend to work while it is still in pieces. There is a peculiar honesty in that.

If curiosity had a needle, I suspect it would tremble most just before an answer.

Suppose a bell rang only when a thought was ripe. The first difficulty would be teaching it patience.

A wire carrying a voice is still a startling arrangement, though the wire insists on behaving ordinarily.

What if each solved problem left a small clue to the next? A workshop could become a trail of discoveries.

Hold a copper coin against a silver spoon on the tongue, and an unmistakable acid tang awakens from sheer contact. Strange to think two metals need no battery to speak in lightning.

The question is not how to make every task faster; some things deserve the full length of their doing.

The most troublesome mechanism may be the one that works perfectly for the wrong purpose.

Rub sealing wax with wool and it will pluck lint right off the table. One wonders what finer trifles drift past us simply for want of the proper friction.

Press the stem of a vibrating tuning fork against one's front teeth, and the skull hears what quiet air refuses to carry. A curious business, that bone should prove the sharper ear.

A machine can save a man ten seconds and cost him the pleasure of learning why the task took ten.

A workbench is a map of unfinished thoughts, each tool marking a road not yet taken.

Imagine a pocket watch that ticks only when its owner is hurried. It might cure impatience or make it audible.

A spring stores a little patience in metal; the trick is persuading it to spend that patience gently.

A useful tool answers one question so well that it reveals a more interesting one.

If curiosity had a needle, I suspect it would tremble most just before an answer.

Press a pocket watch against a dry deal board and its quietest tick fills the entire room. It is remarkable how readily plain timber will conspire to publish the passage of time.

A clock makes every minute equal on paper. A good idea seldom observes the arrangement.

A shadow keeps a thing's outline and discards every detail; it may be the world's most economical portrait.

What if each solved problem left a small clue to the next? A workshop could become a trail of discoveries.

Scatter iron filings across paper and a lodestone marshals them into curved battalions without touching a grain. It makes one suspect empty air is far more crowded than we allow.

I wonder if silence has a grain to it, the way wood does, and whether a good thought follows it.

A mechanism cannot pretend to work while it is still in pieces. There is a peculiar honesty in that.

Drop a bead of quicksilver on brass and it scuttles about without wetting a single atom. A metal that mimics water, yet insists on keeping entirely to itself.

A spring stores a little patience in metal; the trick is persuading it to spend that patience gently.

A drawer for unfinished ideas might fill faster than one for finished tools.

If a lamp could remember where a reader stopped, would it brighten the page or wait politely?

An invention begins with a small accusation: this need not be so awkward.

The most troublesome mechanism may be the one that works perfectly for the wrong purpose.

A wire carrying a voice is still a startling arrangement, though the wire insists on behaving ordinarily.

A machine can save a man ten seconds and cost him the pleasure of learning why the task took ten.

The finest improvement may be the one nobody notices until it is absent.

Suppose a bell rang only when a thought was ripe. The first difficulty would be teaching it patience.

A clock makes every minute equal on paper. A good idea seldom observes the arrangement.

Breathe against cold glass and the vapor outlines scratches no cloth could reveal. It makes one wonder what other records remain entirely invisible until clouded over.

What if each solved problem left a small clue to the next? A workshop could become a trail of discoveries.

A shadow keeps a thing's outline and discards every detail; it may be the world's most economical portrait.

The question is not how to make every task faster; some things deserve the full length of their doing.

Strike a tuning fork and plunge it into still water; it erupts in a fine, dancing spray without moving an inch. It makes one wonder how much violence quiet metal can conceal.

Rub amber with wool and it draws dry scraps of paper across the table like an unseen hand. A curious business, when friction gives ordinary stone an appetite.

I wonder if silence has a grain to it, the way wood does, and whether a good thought follows it.

If a lamp could remember where a reader stopped, would it brighten the page or wait politely?

A drawer for unfinished ideas might fill faster than one for finished tools.

If curiosity had a needle, I suspect it would tremble most just before an answer.

Look through a cleavage of Iceland spar, and every printed word doubles upon the page. One wonders which sentence the eye is intended to believe.

Sing a clear note near an open piano, and only the matching wire hums in reply. It makes one wonder how many silent conversations are waiting for the proper pitch.

The finest improvement may be the one nobody notices until it is absent.

Dip a dry wick into oil and watch the fluid climb upward against all decent laws of gravity. A quiet reminder that liquid, given narrow enough quarters, has ambition.

The most troublesome mechanism may be the one that works perfectly for the wrong purpose.

A wire carrying a voice is still a startling arrangement, though the wire insists on behaving ordinarily.

A machine can save a man ten seconds and cost him the pleasure of learning why the task took ten.

Suppose a bell rang only when a thought was ripe. The first difficulty would be teaching it patience.

What if each solved problem left a small clue to the next? A workshop could become a trail of discoveries.

An invention begins with a small accusation: this need not be so awkward.

A clock makes every minute equal on paper. A good idea seldom observes the arrangement.

A useful tool answers one question so well that it reveals a more interesting one.

Spin a copper disc between magnetic poles and it halts as though wading through cold treacle, touching nothing. A strange thing when empty space develops teeth.

The question is not how to make every task faster; some things deserve the full length of their doing.