A Quote by Siddhartha Mukherjee

One swallow is a coincidence, but two swallows make summer. — © Siddhartha Mukherjee
One swallow is a coincidence, but two swallows make summer.
So it's a coincidence. Just like you said. Two rich parents with two rich kids at the same school. They're both killed in accidents. Why are you so interested?" "Because I don't like coincidence," Blunt replied. "In fact, I don't believe in coincidence. Where some people see coincidence, I see conspiracy. That's my job.
Your hurt swallows ine, like space swallows time, and the two intertwine. We tangle together.
It's surely summer. for there's a swallow: Come one swallow, his mate will follow, The bird race quicken and wheel and thicken.
One swallow alone does not make a summer.
The activity of happiness must occupy an entire lifetime; for one swallow does not a summer make.
One swallow does not make a summer, but one skein of geese, cleaving the murk of March thaw, is the Spring.
The perch swallows the grub-worm, the pickerel swallows the perch, and the fisherman swallows the pickerel; and so all the chinks in the scale of being are filled.
I rarely think of poetry as something I make happen; it is more accurate to say that it happens to me. Like a summer storm, a house afire, or the coincidence of both on the same day.
For one swallow does not make a summer, nor does one day; and so too one day, or a short time, does not make a man blessed and happy.
One swallow maketh not summer.
One swallow never makes a summer.
I used to go to sports camp every summer. I'd make a lot of new friends, and it was all athletic. It was basically a place for parents to send their kids to run out all their summer energy for two weeks.
People are entirely too disbelieving of coincidence. They are far too ready to dismiss it and to build arcane structures of extremely rickety substance in order to avoid it. I, on the other hand, see coincidence everywhere as an inevitable consequence of the laws of probability, according to which having no unusual coincidence is far more unusual than any coincidence could possibly be.
How would you like to have a thousand brilliantly colored cliff swallows keeping house in the eaves of your barn, and gobbling up insects over your farm at the rate of 100,000 per day? There are many Wisconsin farmsteads where such a swallow-show is a distinct possibility.
Dysphagia is the medical term for not being able to swallow, and I know that there are two kinds of dysphagia: oropharyngeal and esophageal. But maybe there is also a third kind of dysphagia that comes when your heart breaks into pieces. I can't swallow because I have that kind.
If two baseball players from the same hometown, on different teams, receive the same uniform number, it is not ironic. It is a coincidence. If Barry Bonds attains lifetime statistics identical to his father's, it will not be ironic. It will be a coincidence.
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