Technically, we're all half centaur.
Man's being is made of such strange stuff as to be partly akin to nature and partly not, at once natural and extranatural, a kind of ontological centaur, half immersed in nature, half transcending it.
He threw his head back and sang, "'I am a centaur, yes, a centaur is what I am.' It's not like you to wax, Artemis" "Foaly is singing," said Holly. "Surely that's illegal?
Never," said Hagrid irritably, "try an' get a straight answer out of a centaur. Ruddy stargazers. Not interested in anythin' closer'n the moon.
But centaurs never existed; there could never be So to speak a double nature in a single body Or a double body composed of incongruous parts With a consequent disparity in the faculties. The stupidest person ought to be convinced of that.
Some poems are like the Centaurs--a mingling of man and beast, and begotten of Ixion on a cloud.
You..." The centaur's eyes flared like a cornered animal's. "You should be dead.
Have you ever, looking up, seen a cloud like to a Centaur, a Part, or a Wolf, or a Bull?
I am part-demon, part-human. What else does that make me?" She answered his question with one of her own. "I am part-centaur, part-human. Does that make me a mutant?" "It makes you a miracle." She held his gaze. "Exactly.