It is an artifact of self as an expression of life, and of the myriad forms it assumes that it is taken to be its own principle. In this egoity it demonstrates its immaturity. But what the self expresses in such a charmingly infantile way is only the extraordinary attainment of life, like a new sort of blossom giving itself up for sake of its fruit, the self that death has schooled. It's not the principle but the process, and all the errors and deformities that it acquires signify nothing but themselves. Take it to be the first experiments in reflection, the venture that it take itself as object, and all the extraordinary consequences that follow from that startling discovery to the point of initiating a whole new stream of evolution on top of the first. It glimpses the unattainable thought of principle and is haunted by it while it stutters out a sort of language that it confuses with the thing, inventing being so it can babble be be be.