The year that Rutherford died (1938) there disappeared forever the happy days of free scientific work which gave us such delight in our youth. Science has lost her freedom. Science has become a productive force. She has become rich but she has become enslaved and part of her is veiled in secrecy. I do not know whether Rutherford would continue to joke and laugh as he used to.
We can't know if we laugh at ourselves for being silly or to forget that we're not and that we are still here only by a sufferance that can be no more predicted than appeased. Like most things, probably a little of both.
A crust of bread and a corner to sleep in. A minute to smile and an hour to weep in. A pint of joy to a peck of trouble, And never a laugh but the moans come double. And that is life. A crust and a corner that makes love precious, With a smile to warm and tears to refresh us, And joy seems sweeter when cares come after, And a moan is the finest of foils for laughter. And that is life.
The door slams in response, and I laugh. I'm glad she can laugh. It means she really is coping. I know she’s internalizing a lot, though. Putting on a show for me. She’ll have new scars on her wrists soon.
You think Bernadette Maguire killed him?”
“Uh… no. She’s, like I said, she’s old.”
“Old people can kill people too.”
“I know, but…”
“She could be a ninja.”
“She’s not a ninja, for God’s sake. She’s somebody’s great grandmother.”
“I want you to think carefully about this, Kenny. Have you ever seen her with a sword?”
“How about throwing stars?”
“This is ridiculous.”
“Have you ever seen her dressed up as a ninja? That would have been my ﬁrst clue.”
The girl sucked in her cheeks so she wouldn't laugh out loud.