You go round and round like a rat in a maze, terminating in the same dead ends and welcoming the same new turnings and off you go again. Well and good, but what you call the maze was already there; these same twists and turns, under other names, perhaps, but the same, were mapped and remapped long ago, by others, following the same scents, and meeting the same checks. But it is only when you are brought up short by this realisation, by the heteronomy of what you thought of as following your own path, that you get a fleeting glimpse of what that path would really be - in a sudden light which does not depend on how many strugglers it has flashed upon. It's the point outside of thought which you can only get to by exhausting yourself in the utter futility of thinking, of searching, of being the thinker or the searcher.