We are made of stellar ash. Our origin and evolution have been tied to distant cosmic events. The exploration of the cosmos is a voyage of self-discovery.
The beauty of a living thing is not the atoms that go into it, but the way those atoms are put together.
Books break the shackles of time, proof that humans can work magic.
The cosmos is within us. We are made of star stuff
There is perhaps no better a demonstration of the folly of human conceits than this distant image of our tiny world.
The fact that some geniuses were laughed at does not imply that all who are laughed at are geniuses.
If we are to survive, our loyalties must be broadened further, to include the whole human community, the entire planet Earth.
We are, in the most profound sense, children of the Cosmos.
A book is proof that humans are capable of working magic.
Our planet is a lonely speck in the great enveloping cosmic dark. In our obscurity, in all this vastness, there is no hint that help will come from elsewhere to save us from ourselves.
Those afraid of the universe as it really is, those who pretend to nonexistent knowledge and envision a Cosmos centered on human beings will prefer the fleeting comforts of superstition.
Those with the courage to explore the weave and structure of the Cosmos, even where it differs profoundly from their wishes and prejudices, will penetrate its deepest mysteries.
In the vastness of the Cosmos there must be other civilizations far older and more advanced than ours.
Preserve and cherish the pale blue dot, the only home we've ever known.
Man is the matter of the cosmos, contemplating itself.
The cosmos is all there is, all there ever was, and all there ever will be.
The cosmos is full beyond measure of elegant truths / of exquisite interrelationships / of the awesome machinery of nature
Our loyalties are to the species and the planet. We speak for Earth. Our obligation to survive is owed not just to ourselves but also to that Cosmos, ancient and vast, from which we spring.
Our loyalties are to the species and the planet. We speak for Earth.
Books permit us to voyage through time, to tap the wisdom of our ancestors.
We began as wanderers, and we are wanderers still.
Human history can be viewed as a slowly dawning awareness that we are members of a larger group.
Our posturings, our imagined self-importance , the delusion that we have some privileged position in the universe are challenged by this point of pale light.
The Earth is a very small stage in a vast cosmic arena.
Writing is perhaps the greatest of human inventions.
we make our world significant by the courage of our questions and the depth of our answers
The universe seems neither benign nor hostile, merely indifferent.
The Cosmos is all that is or ever was or ever will be.