'The poet Hoha once dreamed he was a butterfly, and then he awoke and said, “Am I a man who dreamed he was a butterfly or am I a butterfly dreaming he is a man?”‘ said Lobsang, trying to join in.
‘Really?’ said Susan briskly. ‘And which was he?’
‘What? Well…who knows?’
‘How did he write his poems?’ said Susan.
‘With a brush, of course.’
‘He didn’t flap around making information-rich patterns in the air or laying eggs on cabbage leaves?’
‘No one ever mentioned it.’
‘Then he was probably a man,’ said Susan. (TOT)
‘Really?’ said Susan briskly. ‘And which was he?’
‘What? Well…who knows?’
‘How did he write his poems?’ said Susan.
‘With a brush, of course.’
‘He didn’t flap around making information-rich patterns in the air or laying eggs on cabbage leaves?’
‘No one ever mentioned it.’
‘Then he was probably a man,’ said Susan. (TOT)
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