From "On the Plurality of the Soul"

He walks with a bounce in his step down the crowded street. He's in the middle of a kind of pedestrian rush hour, everyone's suits and faces looking equally severe and busy as they make a great show of hustling to or from something of such importance that if the other pedestrians only knew to or from what that individual were hurrying, they would make way for him or her immediately. Unfortunately, everyone bustles in the same manner, disinclined to notice the others' urgency.
    Seen from above, he would show up like a boulder in the middle of a river that flows both ways. Although he is moving, too, it is so much more slowly and in such a wandering fashion that he causes human eddies fore and aft. Seen at ground level, the first thing you would notice in the gray press of the crowd would be a flash of short yellow tentacles swinging from his hand.
    If I had to say I have a soul soul, it would be this one, ambling around all day wielding a banana peel, with a look in his eye that says he knows how to use it and is just biding his time . . .

* * * * *

Well then tell me this, lover: if my soul is not plural, how is it that now, when I am so full of it myself, I find a part of it in you as well?