A curious fantasy: The self, the ever present central experiencer is hidden behind veils of mystification so insisted upon that they present as logical impossibilities, the eye cannot see itself, and so forth. But what if all of these are misdirections because the subject, who you are is simply shy, is afraid that you won’t like it, will be disappointed in it. You, this great proud thug of a lad trumpeting his dramas far and wide, while the self, perfectly neutral, is necessarily the relative opposite of all that makes up your identity. The moment you take a step it is everything you hold in vague contempt. No need to specify, but see how much feeling is concentrated there, contracted to a point, and how vigorously it defends itself from full discovery. There is an erotics at play in this too, not self-love, which is no love at all but a kind of fear, but its opposite, the real thing…