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

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 is a kind of disassembled and reassembled, postmodern collective and personal self. This is the self feminists must code.

Why should our bodies end at the skin, or include at best other beings encapsulated by skin?

I’d rather be a cyborg than a goddess.

Grammar is politics by other means.

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