We don’t know anything about ourselves. We know that who we think we are is constructed by others, those whom we think we know everything about. Don’t think I’m talking about being curious, about poking around in other people’s lives and then gossiping. I’m talking about something different: the way we have of knowing ourselves is through what others believe about us. We resemble the creature invented by others more than you might imagine. Mostly because it’s more comfortable, and it saves you the trouble of going around clearing things up. The maddening part is that you can’t stand it when others control aspects of you that you yourself are unaware of, whether through ignorance, indifference, or because it’s better not to see yourself projected in that person others say you are. But you’ve also got to admit that it’s more reassuring to resemble the person that others have constructed than to construct yourself, to go to the trouble of taking action to destroy the myth, arguing with the others, showing them they have a false idea of who you are. Tell me the point of getting involved in this polemic. I’m not who you think. Come on, do you think I’m a. You thought I was a. Useless, this debate. What does a person gain by being himself. What loyalty to what principles is a person supposed to profess if, in the end, we negotiate, because if you like this place, nature, the forest, the sea, if you want to stay, you have to come to terms.