Sense of Self Frederick W. Feldman You are at the dentist and look at the fish swimming in their tank, leaning in to watch them paddle up and down, captivated—maybe like that unforgettable painting by Matisse. The fish dissipate into flakes and particles, and the bubble pump waves the hydrophytes. You catch the vector, reflected on the glass, of your own face, holding within it the water, the bubbles, the shining scales, the ichthyosiform Monad holding together other people’s opinions, other people’s thoughts, imbricated in gaze, your indivisible light a skein. Now look at you, deaf, dumb, and blind amidst the ringing bells on your island of self, staring at your own face in the mirror, drawing a self-portrait and filling it with blue and red watercolors, entranced by your own bulbous eyes and blank face as if, in youth, you’ve just discovered a world entire of itself, like Narcissus plastered to his pool, other people’s opinions, other people’s thoughts foaming over your bluffs, your damned old “universe” tossing and turning, expecting to tell you where to go.
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