A Quote by James Dyson
An inventor's path is chorused with groans, riddled with fist-banging and punctuated by head scratches.
Related Quotes
It's like banging my head against the wall, except if I were actually banging my head on a wall, I'd be able to make myself stop.
People who disagree with His Excellency, the President for Life and 'Chief of Chiefs,' are frequently found to be the victims of car crashes (their bodies mysteriously riddled with bullets); or dead in their beds of heart attacks (their bodies mysteriously riddled with bullets); or the recipients of some not-quite-fresh seafood (their bodies mysteriously riddled with bullets).
He liked the mere act of reading, the magic of turning scratches on a page into words inside his head.
The Christian church [in its true identity] does not persecute; any more than a lily scratches the thorns, or a lamb pursues and tears the wolves, or a turtledove hunts the hawks and eagles, or a chaste and modest virgin fights and scratches like whores and harlots.
Only an inventor knows how to borrow, and every man is or should be an inventor.
Nature in darkness groans and men are bound to sullen contemplation in the night: restless they turn on beds of sorrow; in their inmost brain feeling the crushing wheels, they rise, they write the bitter words of stern philosophy and knead the bread of knowledge with tears and groans.
Working with the artist elite can be like banging your head against the wall.
I'm the laziest inventor you ever met. My inventing is in my head - I don't have to be in the lab working and sweating.
In L.A., we listen to everything. If it's banging, it's banging - we don't care where it's from.
My tablecloth was missing in action and long, jagged scratches covered the table's surface.The scratches looked suspiciously like letters. I climbed on a chair and looked at it from above. MINE. Oh, that's great. Fantastic. So mature. Perhaps he would pull my pigtails next or stick a tack on my seat.
Some days I am not sure if my faith is riddled with doubt or whether, graciously, my doubt is riddled with faith.
I enjoy humour more than anything, I don't really sit around banging my head and crying all the time.
The spinning wheel is itself an exquisite piece of machinery. My head daily bows in reverence to its unknown inventor.
Clearly the secret of happiness...is a variation on the general principle of banging your head against a wall, and then stopping.
But to be perfectly frank, this childish idea that the author of a novel has some special insight into the characters in the novel ... it's ridiculous. That novel was composed of scratches on a page, dear. The characters inhabiting it have no life outside of those scratches. What happened to them? They all ceased to exist the moment the novel ended.
The painting was framed in a misty view of sky, sea, and valley. Newt's painting was small, black, and warty. It consisted of scratches made in a black, gummy impasto. The scratches formed a sort of spider's web, and I wondered if they might not be the sticky nets of human futility hung up on a moonless night to dry.
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