The soul can sicken and imagine itself to be no more than a self among other selves in search of themselves, or an identity amongst other identities fighting over recognition; it can project itself into these ways for a time, and not without some bitter reflux, and not without retaining in some hidden corner its soulfulness. That a self or an identity could pull off playing at being a soul is absurd, and somewhat obscene, and yet we see the attempt made all around and every day.