There are the wide fields of experience, of possible experience, of vicarious experience and experience that is merely 'about' experience, experience's wonderful and inexhaustible aboutness, all of this says a lot, says everything, every thing. But then there is the peculiar fact of experiencing, of this experiencing, the life of experiencing, the life of life. It's not entirely 'there', it ought to be able to reach out and dig its claws into the passing stream, arrest it, force it to yield its stuff. It doesn't, it can't, but still, it touches the marrow of something, a flavour you recognise at the heart of every kind of happiness, of the merest joy.