Each time starting out again, trying to to get at the thing, assuming it is all here, itself, in the same presence as this mere gesture of thought, this brief flare. Why do this, incessantly, fruitlessly if you weren't sure that all is not the way it appears, if you didn't recall, with a peculiarly dumb certainty, that it had once, or more than once, opened up, that there is a hidden door in the cell, just where you are? There is no reason why the question should appear in this way, should divide reality along these very lines. The crown of success for you could be the starting point for another mind, equally discontented. It is foolish to base a claim to indelible subjectivity on the way the mystery happens to unfold or to nag for this historical character. The only thing you can generalise is your terrifying lack of generality. But if you pose the question rightly it is not just you who asks, it is your life, all the compacted energy of your childhood, all your blunderings reawakened and clarified, your class, your type, your genre, language, moments stopped in the street, the absoluteness hidden within your very mediocrity.