Though both are bound in the spiral dance, I would rather be a cyborg than a goddess.

In a sense, a cyborg has no origin story in the Western sense – a ‘final’ irony since the cyborg is also the awful apocalyptic telos of the ‘West’s’ escalating dominations of abstract individuation, an ultimate self untied at last from all dependency, a man in space.

The cyborg would not recognize the garden of Eden; it is not made of mud and cannot dream of returning to dust.

Technology is not neutral. We're inside of what we make, and it's inside of us. We're living in a world of connections — and it matters which ones get made and unmade.

Our machines are disturbingly lively, and we ourselves frighteningly inert.

Grammar is politics by other means.

By the late twentieth century, our time, a mythic time, we are all chimeras, theorized and fabricated hybrids of machine and organism; in short, we are cyborgs.