The whole plan hinged upon the natural curiosity of potatoes.
Our ability to adapt and therefore to accept everything is one of our greatest dangers. Creatures that are completely flexible, changeable, can have no fixed morality.
Every stink that fights the ventilator thinks it is Don Quixote.
I see a poem as a multi-coloured strip behind peeling plaster, in separate, shining fragments.
If a man who can’t count finds a four leaf clover, is he lucky?
A smart machine will first consider which is more worth its while: to perform the given task or, instead, to figure some way out of it.