A Plant (n.) speaks first of its home — climate, soil, marsh or mountain — and then of the special will of its species, saying something that cannot be uttered in any other tongue.
A Plant (n.) has no self-consciousness because it cannot move — of what use would knowing be to it if it could not seek the salutary and flee the noxious?
A Plant (n.) is the most naive of beings: it shows its whole character in its mere form, carrying its organs of generation openly on top — innocent because it does not know.
A Plant (n.) has no consciousness of an outer world, only something like a dull self-enjoyment; yet it seeks light and finds supports it does not touch — a faint analogue to perception.
A Plant (n.) presses itself on our notice as if longing for an onlooker: unable to know, it needs a foreign intelligence to lift it from blind will into the world of idea.