You do not really understand something unless you can explain it to your grandmother.
I am of course getting angry if biologists try to use the general concept 'chance' in order to explain phenomena which are so typical for living organisms as, for instance, those appearing in the biological evolution.
Vision, I say, is related to light itself. But of this sensation and the things pertaining to it, I pretend to understand but little; and since even a long time would not suffice to explain that trifle, or even to hint at an explanation, I pass over this in silence.
Never explain yourself. Your friends don’t need it and your enemies won’t believe it.
Some people have scripts and scripts and lots of scripts, and they change it all the time. Even though [Jean-Luc Godard] had no script, he had it all in his heart and in his brain. He can explain it to you in a way where even if you get the dialogue five minutes before in the morning and you have to shoot it later, at least you have an idea about it, because he takes his time to explain things and to do the movements with you. There was always lots of rehearsal.
Who then will explain the explanation?
Greece was a muse. It inspired creativity in magical ways that I can't even begin to understand or explain.
Black Country Communion
You can't really explain why you get on well with someone. It's instinctive.
You never question the truth of something until you have to explain it to a skeptic.
To explain all nature is too difficult a task for any one man or even for any one age. Tis much better to do a little with certainty & leave the rest for others that come after than to explain all things by conjecture without making sure of any thing.
Laziness and cowardice explain why so many men. . . remain under a life-long tutelage and why it is so easy for some men to set themselves up as the guardians of all the rest. . . If I have a book which understands for me, a pastor who has a conscience for me, a doctor who decides my diet, I need not trouble myself. If I am willing to pay, I need not think. Others will do it for me.
Wrrite, wrrite, Lapochka, why you don’t wrrite?” and assure me that a horse, even with four legs, stumbles. I found it difficult to explain to her what I was writing. “It’s about Colley Cibber,” I said. “He was an actor, playwright and poet.” “Also poet?” Varya asked suspiciously. “Who he? Pushkin?”