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September 15, 2014

With the hair that falls away, a self is shed, and I invent a new one right there beneath the barber’s drapings. Without a doubt, it is the old self who goes to die in this chair for I invent birth and calling, lands and tongue, as I go. Inwardly, I liken it in some way to sleep, to that old thought according to which the self awakens new and unknown after consciousness disrupted. I am merely less radical in my claims.

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