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Soul in a bucket

We know where the self is and roughly how it is constructed. So why can't I find Mary in the wreckage of her brain?

By Paul Broks   June 2002

My soul is a hidden orchestra; I know not what instruments, what fiddle strings and harps, drums and tambours I sound and clash inside myself. All I hear is the symphony. Fernando Pessoa

I once met a young man who was convinced his head was full of water and contained a fish rather than a brain: something like a trout. It unsettled him to think of it living in such cramped conditions. He no longer had need of a brain since his thoughts and behaviour were under the control of the CIA. Most of us believe that the head contains…

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