And how many millions there are who live from day to day by the incessant operation of subtle processes in them, of which they know nothing, and care less?
Little ween they, of vessels lacteal and lymphatic, of arteries femoral and temporal; of pericranium or pericardium; lymph, chyle, fibrin, albumen, iron in the blood, and pudding in the head; they live by the charity of their bodies, to which they are but butlers.

I say, my lord, our bodies are our betters.

A soul so simple, that it prefers evil to good, is lodged in a frame, whose minutest action is full of unsearchable wisdom.

Knowing this superiority of theirs, our bodies are inclined to be willful: our beards grow in spite of us; and as every one knows, they sometimes grow on dead men." "You mortals are alive, then, when you are dead, Babbalanja." "No, my lord; but our beards survive us." "An ingenious distinction; go on, philosopher." "Without bodies, my lord, we Mardians would be minus our strongest motive-passions, those which, in some way or other, root under our every action.

Hence, without bodies, we must be something else than we essentially are.