One must wonder, in a deep and abiding way… if there were ‘parts’ of us… before… there were machines. Too easily we metaphy ourselves in the image of our creations, and too often, when we choose instead creation… the reflections we presume to resemble are too impoverished to contain, let alone extend us.

Once, while assaulted by computationalist philosophers demanding that the brain is a kind of computer, I invoked Gödel, and riposted thusly:

Machines are assembled by living beings from parts. Living beings emerge whole from other living beings. Computers have a user. Your brain was neither assembled, nor does it have a user, and if you think ‘you are the user of the computer your brain is’ you probably think that the existence of a map in the glove box moves your car from its point of origin to its destination. In such a case you are not only confused, you are abjectly, hopelessly, furiously stupid. You have not only neglected Einstein’s dearest friend, you have dispensed with sanity and sense.

And there was silence amongst the cocks and doctors.