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Cellular Gallery

Cellular Gallery by Heather Barnett

The So-Called Individual

The first clue: cork through a lens is full of boundaries Gentlemen, whilst bidding you heartily welcome (The heron is its limbs, folding)
Telling the doctors the new news, passing round the slides what the individual is on a grand scale, the cell is that, and perhaps even more, on a small one (The city is its citizens, quarrelling)
Appropriately, the theory emerged from many discoverers existences are mutually dependent but in such a way that every element has its own special action
(My fist is my hand, clenching)
Not only between ape and angel but between nucleus and nation nothing has penetrated less deeply into the minds of all than the cell-theory in its intimate connection with pathology (I make, and am made by, my parts and what I’m part of)
Implications like the influence of public sanitation on private capillaries I shall have no particular reason to justify myself, if in this respect, I make quite a special reservation in favour of life (The river is its droplets, passing)
The micrographs look like eyes staring back, gaudy and diseased disturbances which arise from social and political institutions, and are therefore preventable (My mind is my brain, feeling)
Plants and animals, chorus girls and impresarios, all made of the same a body of considerable size, a so-called individual, always represents a kind of social arrangement of parts (The world is a verb, elaborating)
Embryos growing into excitable microscopists I am somewhat proud of having always, in spite of the reproach of pedantry, firmly adhered to it (I’m not my cells, I’m what they do)

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