This is fun:

In one of the most intriguing sections of The Literary Mind, Turner discusses "the concept of a concept." Bringing together elements of his argument, he says that parable involves “dynamic construction” which links and blends the spaces in which stories occur, with the resulting projections and analogies creating meaning, often quite new meaning. In this kind of process, meaning and inference "are not bounded by a single conceptual locus. Meaning is a complex operation of projecting, blending, and integrating over multiple spaces. Meaning never settles down into a single residence. Meaning is parabolic and literary." To many of us this seems counterintuitive. We like to think of meanings as discrete packets with circumscribed boundaries, abstractions which refer to appropriate entities, while we regard parabolic extension and blending of meaning, with all its potential for both warping and enriching sense, as something "poetic" and exceptional.

But we do not "have" concepts in this way, he says. In the spirit of Turner’s book, let's parabolically imagine concepts as countries. These countries are often distinguished from each other by borders that appear as clear, natural divisions, like rivers or mountain ranges. Sometimes they are divided by unmapped wastelands, or by swampy and disputed marshes. Some are islands, with the sea such an obvious natural boundary that no one even thinks to question it. Over on the continent of mathematics, borders are laid out in straight, stipulated grids, which at least makes foreign relations tidy. Concept-countries have centers of life, major cities and capitals. The country of Art, which interests me especially, has many, some inhabited by the likes of Homer, Lady Murasaki, and Shakespeare, while in others are to be found Praxiteles, Bernini, and Rodin. There are less powerful towns as well, and on the frontier you can find dusty settlements of refugees from the nearby country of Craft. Some cynics claim these illegals are nothing more than economic refugees who ought to be sent home. At a border post, Marcel Duchamp argues with the guards. They are confused whether to let him in, while he laughs, telling them their post is not at the border at all, but a hundred miles inside it.

If you want to, read all of it. I didn't. I just read the beginning, then that bit, and laughed.