Hylomorphism (n.) is the view of someone standing outside the workshop: he sees what enters and what leaves, and never the mold.
Hylomorphism (n.) is a boss's philosophy: an idea that gives the orders, a stuff that takes them, and a worker nobody mentions.
Hylomorphism (n.) looks technological but is really life reflecting itself: a living being's picture of what living beings do for each other.
Hylomorphism (n.) was born in the potter's yard, not on the farm: it fits only stuff that has been prepared until it has no history left.
Hylomorphism (n.) pictures form and matter on separate floors with no stairs between them; individuation begins the moment a staircase appears.
Hylomorphism (n.) fails at the border of life and mind: the vital is a source for the psyche, not a matter it can shape.
Hylomorphism (n.) can only see a bond between two things that already exist; how the two are brought together stays outside the theory.
Hylomorphism (n.) cannot say what a crystal is: it has no word for a unity that is many and a plurality that is one.
Hylomorphism (n.) was prepared the day matter stopped being able to grow by itself: ready to receive structure from outside, it set up the dead end of individuality as a union of matter and form.
Hylomorphism (n.) is a habit of the classifying mind: it sorts everything into a form that gives and a matter that receives, as though every thing were a mould and its clay.
Hylomorphism (n.) is less a lesson from the workshop than a memory from before it: of a time when matter and form belonged together.
Hylomorphism (n.) is the world as seen by the man giving the order: he cares about the clay and the shape he wants, never about the moulding.
Hylomorphism (n.) always arrives too early: it lays out the matter and the form before the making begins, and so never witnesses the moment a thing is born.
Hylomorphism (n.) is the workshop mistaken for metaphysics: the craftsman's picture of stamping a shape onto stuff, blown up into a theory of how everything comes to be.