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

Late twentieth-century machines have made thoroughly ambiguous the difference between natural and artificial, mind and body, self-developing and externally designed, and many other distinctions that used to apply to organisms and machines. Our machines are disturbingly lively, and we ourselves frighteningly inert.

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

We have all been injured, profoundly. We require regeneration, not rebirth, and the possibilities for our reconstitution include the utopian dream of the hope for a monstrous world without gender.

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

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

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