From the book The reality of Being by Jeanne de Salzmann
"Who am I? If I do not know, what meaning does my life have? And what in me responds to life? So, I must try to answer, to see who I am. First, my thought steps back and brings suggestions about myself: I am a man or woman who can do this, who had done that, who possesses this and that. My thinking volunteers possible answers from all that it knows. But it does not know that I am, does not really know me in this moment. Then I turn to my feeling. It is among the centers most capable of knowing. Can it answer? My feeling is not free. It has to obey the "me" who wants to be the greatest, the most powerful and who suffers all the time from now being first. So, my feeling does not dare. It is afraid, or doubts. How can it know? Then, of course, there is my body, the capacity to sense my body. But am I my body?
In fact, I don't not know myself. I don not know what I am. I know neither my possibilities nor my limitations. I exist, yet I do not know how I am existing. I believe my actions are affirming my own existence. Yet I am always responding to life with only one part of myself. I react either emotionally or intellectually or physically. And it is never really "I" who responds. I also believe I am moving in the direction I want to go and that I can "do". But in fact I am acted upon, moved by forces that I know nothing about. Everything in me takes place, everything happens. The strings are pulled without my knowing. I do not see that I am like a puppet, a machine set in motion by influences from outside.
At the same time, I sense my life passing as if it were the life another person. I vaguely see myself being agitated, hoping, regretting, afraid, bored... all without feeling that I am taking part. Most of the time I act without knowing it and realise only afterwards that I said this or did that. It is as though my life unfolds without my conscious participation. It unfolds while I sleep. From time to time jolts or shocks awaken me for an instant. In the middle of an angry outburst, or grief or danger, I suddenly open my eyes - "What?...It's me, here, in this situation, living this." But after the shock, I go back to sleep, and a long time can pass before a new shock awakens me.
As my life passes I may begin to suspect that I am not what I believe. I am a being who is asleep, a being with no consciousness of himself. In this sleep I confuse intellect - the thought functioning independently from feeling - with intelligence, which includes the capacity to feel what is being reasoned. My functions - my thoughts, feelings and movements - work without direction, subject to random shocks and habits. It is the lowest state of being for man. I live in my own narrow, limited world commanded by associations from all my subjective impressions. This is a a prison to which I always return - my prison."
"Who am I? If I do not know, what meaning does my life have? And what in me responds to life? So, I must try to answer, to see who I am. First, my thought steps back and brings suggestions about myself: I am a man or woman who can do this, who had done that, who possesses this and that. My thinking volunteers possible answers from all that it knows. But it does not know that I am, does not really know me in this moment. Then I turn to my feeling. It is among the centers most capable of knowing. Can it answer? My feeling is not free. It has to obey the "me" who wants to be the greatest, the most powerful and who suffers all the time from now being first. So, my feeling does not dare. It is afraid, or doubts. How can it know? Then, of course, there is my body, the capacity to sense my body. But am I my body?
In fact, I don't not know myself. I don not know what I am. I know neither my possibilities nor my limitations. I exist, yet I do not know how I am existing. I believe my actions are affirming my own existence. Yet I am always responding to life with only one part of myself. I react either emotionally or intellectually or physically. And it is never really "I" who responds. I also believe I am moving in the direction I want to go and that I can "do". But in fact I am acted upon, moved by forces that I know nothing about. Everything in me takes place, everything happens. The strings are pulled without my knowing. I do not see that I am like a puppet, a machine set in motion by influences from outside.
At the same time, I sense my life passing as if it were the life another person. I vaguely see myself being agitated, hoping, regretting, afraid, bored... all without feeling that I am taking part. Most of the time I act without knowing it and realise only afterwards that I said this or did that. It is as though my life unfolds without my conscious participation. It unfolds while I sleep. From time to time jolts or shocks awaken me for an instant. In the middle of an angry outburst, or grief or danger, I suddenly open my eyes - "What?...It's me, here, in this situation, living this." But after the shock, I go back to sleep, and a long time can pass before a new shock awakens me.
As my life passes I may begin to suspect that I am not what I believe. I am a being who is asleep, a being with no consciousness of himself. In this sleep I confuse intellect - the thought functioning independently from feeling - with intelligence, which includes the capacity to feel what is being reasoned. My functions - my thoughts, feelings and movements - work without direction, subject to random shocks and habits. It is the lowest state of being for man. I live in my own narrow, limited world commanded by associations from all my subjective impressions. This is a a prison to which I always return - my prison."