Oliver Wendell Holmes Sr. was born on August 18, 1809, in Cambridge, Massachusetts. A graduate of Harvard Medical School in 1836, he became a respected physician, professor, and writer. His medical career was marked by groundbreaking discoveries, including his pioneering research on the cause of puerperal fever, in which he argued that the disease was contagious and transmitted by physicians. Although his ideas initially faced resistance, they were eventually widely accepted and led to significant improvements in hospital hygiene.
Parallel to his medical career, Holmes developed a prolific career as a poet, essayist, and lecturer. His poems, often characterized by their humor, wit, and reflections on life and society, made him one of the most popular poets in the United States during his time. He was one of the founders of the literary magazine The Atlantic Monthly in 1857, where he published many of his best-known essays. Holmes was also an active member of Boston's intellectual life, participating in literary clubs and scientific societies.
Oliver Wendell Holmes Sr. passed away on October 7, 1894, in Boston, Massachusetts. His legacy endures in both medicine and literature, and he is remembered as one of the most influential figures of the 19th century in the United States. His son, Oliver Wendell Holmes Jr., followed in his father's footsteps, becoming a prominent jurist and Associate Justice of the Supreme Court of the United States.
Poems List
The state should, I think, be called “Anaesthesia.” This signifies insensibility. . . . The adjective will be “Anaesthetic.” Thus we might say the state of Anaesthesia, or the anaesthetic state.
2
What a satire, by the way, is that machine [Charles Babbage’s calculating machine] on the mere mathematician! A Frankenstein-monster, a thing without brains and without heart, too stupid to make a blunder; that turns out results like a corn-sheller, and never grows any wiser or better, though it grind a thousand bushels of them!
3
Old people are a kind of monsters to little folks; mild manifestations of the terrible, it may be, but still, with their white locks and ridged and grooved features, which those horrid little eyes exhaust of their details like so many microscopes, not exactly what human beings ought to be.
3
An old author is constantly rediscovering himself in the more or less fossilized productions of his earlier years.
2
Men are idolaters, and want something to look at and kiss and hug, or throw themselves down before; they always did, they always will; and if you don’t make it of wood, you must make it of words.
2
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