Quotes About Complexity

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Tracing the beginnings of the interwoven stories of science can be arbitrary, as beginnings are so often lost in the mists of time.

At the time of his death, John Kennedy had a national security establishment that was a writhing ball of snakes.

Yeah, yeah, yeah, time travel's a nightmare. Don't go down that path.

What I have experienced over time is that environmental problems are easier to deal with in ways that don't go into their interconnections to the rest of what we are.

It's the people who love us or hate us - or both - who hold together the thousands of fragments we are made of.

When I have them working together, it's like a beautiful kaleidoscope.

Man is always marveling at what he has blown apart, never at what the universe has put together, and this is his limitation.

So all things limp together for the only possible.

Some days seem to fit together like a stained glass window. A hundred little pieces of different color and mood that, when combined, create a complete picture.

Making a film, setting it up and getting it cast and getting it together, is not an easy thing

Everyone wants the two characters to be together, but then once they are, it's not that much fun.

People are complicated; you put two of them together and it's generally a mess, but hopefully a beautiful mess.

The world has become so complex that the idea of a power in which everything comes together and can be controlled in a centralized way is now erroneous.

If you're dealing with an assembly of biological systems, you can bring the things together, but you can't connect them.

Things don't really go that well when people get back together.

Strange how love coexists with hate, how they render eachother mute, how the swilling of them together makes a new and softer, sympathetic thing.

The long version of the play is actually an easier version to follow. In all of the cut versions the intense speeches are cut too close together for the audience and the actors.

Life is probably a tangle of love and hate permanently knotted together.

The passion in his face might have been love, might have been hate, might have been both.

He sat back on the seat and looked at her averted face. She was a far more complex person than he had ever dreamed. A wounded person. One who for some reason he did not understand had never been whole, and never free.

Each, for me, has its own charms, though none can be considered strictly "perfect" adaptations.

Whom was one to believe? Life had become so complicated in the last few weeks that there seemed to be no certainties any longer. And she did not feel that her mind could cope with what was happening.

She had to confess that she had felt out of her depth with the duke. His reactions were not as open and predictable as were those of other people she knew. She had found it impossible to guess what he was thinking.