While the world that we map is as if seen from nowhere, its only truth in living consciousness is not isotropic, but strongly oriented by a point which remains inaccessible to it. We think of this point as self and discover hints of its wonderful nature in the most subtle aesthetic sensations that come to us. How could we know them and respond to them if we weren't recognising them, if they did not bring us back recollections of lost wholeness? But is it lost, or merely prior, ever-present and in transient eclipse? Self, the most punctilious, absolute distinction, is thus like a tiny sphere containing infinite space, or a monad on whose surface Indra's net is flawlessly reflected. This serene and un-dialectical notion of being can only be disturbed by that apprehension of the other which is not drawn from us through speculation but forced from us by suffering. There is an infinite disjunction between I and you but also an infinite need for conciliation. Two infinites cannot balance and the self, utterly devoid of time and narrative is for just that reason when it enters into them, entirely without reserve.