"In front of my eyes, in front of Albertine's, there had been not just the morning sunshine but that invisible, translucent yet changeable medium through which we looked, I at her actions, she at the importance of her own life: that is to say, those beliefs which we do not perceive but which are no more a pure vacuum than the air we breathe; they compose around us a changing atmosphere, sometimes excellent, often unbreathable, which we could usefully measure and note as carefully as the temperature, pressure and season, for each of our days has its individual character, physical and psychological." - Marcel Proust, The Prisonner, tr. by Carol Clark.
The odd persistence of the idea that the unfolding event of life consists of the projection of a state of affairs before the gaze of a subject, that every phenomenon, every ongoing experience has a stable and efficient objective basis to know which would be to know the missing and true face of that experience, and so of the experience of the other. The subjective is the awareness of functioning and the project of mapping this functioning, one of man's great dreams, has gone quite far so that there is no reason to think it will fail of its promise; but for the unbridgable gap, that the subjective is no state of affairs, that the life that breathes is not a function of the  air it consumes. And in the end, if it was, why would we bother, or be so driven, to care?