To let the brain work without sufficient material is like racing an engine. It racks itself to pieces. The sea air, sunshine, and patience, Watson—all else will come.

It is a question of cubic capacity," said he; "a man with so large a brain must have something in it.

A man should keep his little brain attic stocked with all the furniture that he is likely to use, and the rest he can put away in the lumber room of his library, where he can get it if he wants it.

I am a brain, Watson. The rest of me is a mere appendix.