It is a melancholy experience for a professional mathematician to find himself writing about mathematics. The function of a mathematician is to do something, to prove new theorems, to add to mathematics, and not to talk about what he or other mathematicians have done. Statesmen despise publicists, painters despise art-critics, and physiologists, physicists, or mathematicians have usually similar feelings: there is no scorn more profound, or on the whole more justifiable, than that of the men who make for the men who explain. Exposition, criticism, appreciation, is work for second-rate minds.

(http://www.autoadmit.com/thread.php?thread_id=2842191&forum_id=2#27580701)

Feynman grew angry. "It's a crazy question!...We're certainly closer. We know more. And if there's a finite amount to be known, we obviously must be closer to having the knowledge, okay? I don't know how to make this into a sensible question... It's all so stupid. All these interviews are always so damned useless."

He rose from his desk and walked out the door and down the corridor, drumming his knuckles along the wall. The writer heard him shout, just before he disappeared: "It's goddamned useless to talk about these things! It's a complete waste of time! The history of these things is nonsense! You're trying to make something difficult and complicated out of something that's simple and beautiful."

Across the hall Murray Gell-Mann looked out of his office. "I see you've met Dick," he said.

(http://www.autoadmit.com/thread.php?thread_id=2842191&forum_id=2#27581488)