Preferisco essere cyborg che dea.

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

From this point of view, science - the real game in town - is rhetoric, a series of efforts to persuade relevant social actors that one's manufactured knowledge is a route to a desired form of very objective power.

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.