I have no other self than the totality of the things of which I am aware.

For there is never anything but the present, and if one cannot live there, one cannot live anywhere.

The more we try to live in the world of words, the more we feel isolated and alone, the more all the joy and liveliness of things is exchanged for mere certainty and security. On the other hand, the more we are forced to admit that we actually live in the real world, the more we feel ignorant, uncertain, and insecure about everything.

But my dear man, reality is only a Rorschach ink-blot, you know.

We are seeing, then, that our experience is altogether momentary. From one point of view, each moment is so elusive and so brief that we cannot even think about it before it has gone. From another point of view, this moment is always here, since we know no other moment than the present moment. It is always dying, always becoming past more rapidly than imagination can conceive. Yet at the same time it is always being born, always new, emerging just as rapidly from that complete unknown we call the future. Thinking about it almost makes you breathless.

The question is not what I should do in the future to get it, but rather, what am I presently doing that prevents me from realizing it right now?

No worthwhile life can be lived without risks, despite current American superstitions to the contrary.