A Craftsman (n.) is bad when he must keep repairing the machine he built: Leibniz's charge against a Newtonian God who tinkers with the solar system.
The Craftsman (n.) starts shaping the brick before the mold is touched: stirring the paste is already form-taking.
A Craftsman (n.) invents all the way through the task: each act of reorganization is smaller than the job, so the invention never leaves his hands, and he repeats it but cannot formalize it as an absolute.
The Craftsman (n.) is drowned in concreteness: he handles his material so intimately that it dominates him, and his picture of the world is the shape of what is in his hands.
The Craftsman (n.) of old is a magician by default: his knowledge is an ability rather than a knowing, and what he cannot explain to himself he cannot hand to anyone else.
The Craftsman (n.) is the last human who is a technical individual: his tools are arranged around him, and he is both their centre and their bearer.
The Craftsman (n.) is a feedback loop made of flesh: mover, tool and perceiver at once, he steers each stroke by the partial result of the last.
The Craftsman (n.) was the machine before there were machines: where no technical individuals could be built, a human being stood in for one.
The Craftsman (n.) is both the engine and the brain of his work: the muscle that drives it and the know-how that steers it live in one body.
The Craftsman (n.) works within arm's reach of the use: the shoemaker has measured the foot, the saddler knows the horse, and whoever makes also mends.