The Mind (n.) troubles us, said Wittgenstein, mainly because we tend to believe it is like a little man within.
The Mind (n.) seems mysterious when it wishes, believes and thinks for the same reason naming does: a whole usage condensed into one thing.
Mind (n.) is the queer medium we invent to house the 'organic' half of language — understanding, meaning, thinking — believing it can do what no material mechanism could.
The Mind (n.) is said to think only by metaphor: an agent in a different sense from the sense in which the hand writes.
Mind (n.) is pictured by everyday grammar as a storeroom where what we remember is kept before we express it — a hypothesis smuggled in as a statement.
The Mind (n.) seems to work a miracle in a mental act, holding the whole calculus of language present, all in a lump, behind a single sentence.
The Mind (n.) seems to be what feels pain only because the 'I' in 'I have pains' denotes no particular body: no description of a body can replace it.
The Mind (n.) thinks, feels, wishes, believes, as man plays strings and winds; and isn't man also acquainted with instruments made of squealing mice? No.
The Mind (n.) is pictured as a gas, a cloudy medium where impossible things happen.