The Brain (n.) is the body's coolest part, condensing the rising vapours like clouds into rain.
The Brain (n.) looks like a script inviting us to read it, yet it is not one.
The Brain (n.) is presumed, with great sureness and almost no knowledge of the correspondences, to hold some peculiar state whenever someone can say a poem by heart.
The Brain (n.) is bound to mental activity like no other organ, yet every attempt to store ideas in nerve-cells has miscarried completely.
Genius (n.) is simultaneity of sight.
Genius (n.) is ever a secret to itself.
Genius (n.) is transcendence of the given
Mind (n.) has become and is still becoming: we think the way that gave our ancestors better prospects, which proves nothing about true and untrue.
Mind (n.) is what makes us rich, and it comes with us into exile, overflowing even in the wilderness with its own goods.
The Mind (n.) at birth is a blank sheet ready for writing, and the senses do the first inscribing.
The Mind (n.) free of passions is a citadel: a human being has nothing more impregnable to flee into and remain unplundered.
Nous (n.) has no duty and so no purpose: having started its motion, it would be — the sentence is hard to finish; Heraclitus finished it: '…a game.'
Nous (n.) was found by Anaxagoras in the simplest experience: ideas move themselves, and move something quite other than themselves — the body.
Nous (n.) is the faculty through which you look steadfastly at things that are present though absent — for Being never presents itself to the senses.