THE DOGMA OF THE SELF
The worst dogma, the one which causes us the most personal pain, is the dogma of the fixed self‑‑ the I am so‑and‑so soliloquy that takes place between a person and his own self‑fixating nature. Denying our own natural flux, the daily and perpetual task of re‑making, we crave the fixed position, the thing that will certify our sloth about ourselves into a category, that will make a kind of waking sleep, as opposed to a vigilance and authenticity, a palpable alternative. I say to someone „I am becoming a new man,“ or „I can really feel myself changing,“ as if each moment weren’t by its nature a becoming, each breath a changing.
Consoled by the thought that we can locate ourselves precisely, we constellate a world of fixity around us‑‑ a psychiatrist’s sofa, the longed‑for constancy of another, the wish for reliable weather. But in the self’s long and obstinate journey toward a more intractable fixity there are always unexpected storms and by‑ways. It is best, therefore, always to carry an umbrella‑‑ or, better yet, to love the possibilities of rain, the unexpected earthquake.