This book's like black holes. It really engulfes you whole.
Another big group of dolphins had just surfaced alongside our moving vessel__eaping and splashing and calling mysteriously back and forth in their squeally, whistly way, with many babies swift alongside their mothers. And this time, confined to just the surface of such deep and lovely lives, I was becoming unsatisfied. I wanted to know what they were experiencing, and why to us they feel so compelling, and so__lose. This time I allowed myself to ask them the question that was forbidden fruit: Who are you? Science usually steers firmly from questions about the inner lives of animals. Surely they have inner lives of some sort. But like a child who is admonished that what they really want to ask is impolite, a young scientist is taught that the animal mind__f there is such__s unknowable. Permissible questions are __t_ questions: where it lives; what it eats; what it does when danger threatens; how it breeds. But always forbidden__lways forbidden__s the one question that might open the door: __ho?_ _ Carl Safina
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Another big group of dolphins had just surfaced alongside our moving vessel__eaping and splashing and calling mysteriously back and forth in their squeally, whistly way, with many babies swift alongside their mothers. And this time, confined to just the surface of such deep and lovely lives, I was becoming unsatisfied. I wanted to know what they were experiencing, and why to us they feel so compelling, and so__lose. This time I allowed myself to ask them the question that was forbidden fruit: Who are you? Science usually steers firmly from questions about the inner lives of animals. Surely they have inner lives of some sort. But like a child who is admonished that what they really want to ask is impolite, a young scientist is taught that the animal mind__f there is such__s unknowable. Permissible questions are __t_ questions: where it lives; what it eats; what it does when danger threatens; how it breeds. But always forbidden__lways forbidden__s the one question that might open the door: __ho?_ _ Carl Safina
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Had Moreau had any intelligible object, I could have sympathized at least a little with him. I am not so squeamish about pain as that. I could have forgiven him a little even, had his motive been only hate. But he was so irresponsible, so utterly careless! His curiosity, his mad, aimless investigations, drove him on; and the Things were thrown out to live a year or so, to struggle and blunder and suffer, and at last to die painfully.
Very often people have a very limited way of thinking.
A mind is a simulation that simulates itself.
Conventional wisdom won't provide continual growth.
He was following the Earth through its days, drifting with the rhythms of its myriad pulses, seeping through the webs of its life, swelling with its tides, turning with its weight.