Becoming aware of repetition he would be struck by the kind of world in which he found himself, and the thought of it would flash on him with those very words, "The kind of world in which I find myself", as if there had been a losing and a finding and a recurrence. It was probably better to say, "The kind of self in which I world." The self was a long knowledge of a connection between sense and repetition. Self is a time which recurs, is recognised, the virtuality of memory momentarily actualised. Self is momentary, and for the rest there is memory. To remember where to come back to, your particular lay of the land, to remember, to replace, from out of the dismembered presence a moment in place and in time when you remembered yourself, even if it is another you and another place and the remembering merely the reading.