Nie wychodzi mi tu,

Nie musicie dziękować. Wystarczy mnie wielbić na klęczkach.

Nie przepadam za drabblami.

The next Monday, when the fathers were all back at work, we kids were playing in a field. One kid says to me, “See that bird? What kind of bird is that?” I say, “I haven’t the slightest idea what kind of a bird it is.” He says, “It’s a brown-throated thrush. Your father doesn’t teach you anything!”

But it was the opposite. He had already taught me: “See that bird?” he said. “It’s a Spencer’s warbler.” (I knew he didn’t know the real name.) “Well, in Italian, it’s a chutto lapittida. In Portuguese, it’s a bom da peida. In Chinese, it’s a chung-long-tah, and in Japanese, it’s a katano tekeda. You can know the name in all the languages of the world, but when you’re finished, you’ll know absolutely nothing whatever about the bird [...] So let’s look at the bird and see what it’s doing—that’s what counts.”

                                   —R.P. Feynman