In comparison, the statue with the sensitive nostrils was a marvel of knowledge, a paragon too generously endowed by its inventor.

It remembered, compared, judged, reasoned: does the drowsily digesting paunch remember?
Does it compare?
Does it reason?
I defined the Capricorn-grub as a bit of an intestine that crawls about.

The undeniable accuracy of this definition provides me with my answer: the grub has the aggregate of sense-impressions that a bit of an intestine may hope to have.
And this nothing-at-all is capable of marvellous acts of foresight; this belly, which knows hardly aught of the present, sees very clearly into the future.

Let us take an illustration on this curious subject.
For three years on end the larva wanders about in the thick of the trunk; it goes up, goes down, turns to this side and that; it leaves one vein for another of better flavour, but without moving too far from the inner depths, where the temperature is milder and greater safety reigns.

A day is at hand, a dangerous day for the recluse obliged to quit its excellent retreat and face the perils of the surface.