Brainlet

"Brainlet" in a Sentence (12 examples)

Let's call these five smaller brain units, brainlets: […] Each brainlet is found in a specific part of your thinking brain.

The Prof brainlet is the IT brainlet. The Prof embraces pure logic without the “messiness” of emotion or instinct. To The Prof, everything is objective and impersonal.

...viz. the railway : an invention which is so thoroughly English that, even supposing it likely to have occurred to any slow Prussian brainlet, it would still have been impossible to have found any other nation (excepting perhaps America) with spirit or capital sufficient to have afforded the plan a trial.

But a shade of bygone sorrow, Like a dream upon the morrow, Round his tiny brainlet clinging, Sets the wee cock ever singing,

Then the blows came fast and heavy on his center-parted hair. Till his soft and tender brainlet was exposed unto the air—Ceased she not her work gymnastic till she sealed the masher's doom.

. Ah! spurn me not, for even worse thoughts have besieged my busy brainlet !

Freshie wants to turn ; he is literally yearning to turn, and he isn't going to take any chances on being put to help the carpenter saw wood, so he has figured it out in his little brainlet, that the best way to get a lathe is to pick one out and camp on it till the instructor gives him something to turn.

A whizzing spike, a chance shot that nearly grazed his nose, so dazzled his brainlet that the terrified creature doubled on his trail and came bounding back towards the train.

Mr. Lamb starts thither with a big wallet and little brainlet to do a “good lot of thinking;” despoiled of one and nearly so of the other, he succeeds in doing a “lot of good thinking—for experience teaches him “what might have been done.”

I may be just a driver who makes a morning drive, but you can bet my brainlet is very much alive.

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Still, we have in this country Whig writers—that is, party Whig writers, of the regular party guage, assuring the other little brainlets who believe their writings, that Ruskin is an author of equivalent genius to Jeremy Taylor's—a great man—an intellectual pinnacle—merely because he puts his hand to madnesses, because he abuses Protestantism, and thinks that Christians should not mind their own business, but all other people's businesses— exactly what a Whig of the latter-day school does in office, devising conspiracy bills for French people and sending advice to Germans— which they don't want, and don't take well;

I think he told Claudine the same thing when they met, and convinced the tiny brainlet of his sincerity.

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