And you always come back to the one persistent inquiry: how can it be? How can it come about or appear as it does? What permits the use of words like appear, mind, world, consciousness, being, self? What is this? This this this? (It has not always been these words, but they are the words now.) What does it mean to go forward with words like these? Who or what is wondering? What is the difference between asking who or asking what? And so on. The questioner takes himself somewhat seriously, but he feels consumed by the questions, like the oil in a lamp, there is less of him each time, and when he is used up, there is only the wick to burn, and then what? For the questioner these questions emerge against the novelistic, they emerge from it and cancel it, and this is what makes them so extraordinarily beautiful. To consider the situation of this character as if his world is a novel, a constructed world. What ironies is he unwittingly submerged in? All those passionate feelings stirred up, like music so loud you can't think, but something drives them, enjoyment, the promise of enjoyment - how good it is to possess the promise of enjoyment, how many situations would you give just for the promise? And for what would you sacrifice all situations? Not such a big sacrifice, really, since you've only ever had them on loan.