It was an infinitely strange feeling to hold an organ, about the size and shape of a large boxing glove, and imagine it as the repository of memory, of consciousness, of speech, temperament, sensation, and feeling. Love. Envy. Hatred. Compassion. All of these had reposed in some tangle of neurons. I was holding him, I thought, this man whose name, or identity, I would never know. Somewhere within that organ lived the neurons that had
