The last barrier falls
My failure to find any body here, and any mind over there, are inseparable sides of one datum: I cannot honestly admit the first yet deny the second, bowing to only half the evidence. It’s no good going by what I see here and refusing to go by what I see there—the presence of my friend’s head (his mere head, as substantial a lump of matter as any pumpkin) and no less clearly given than the absence of mine, and as easily overlooked.
In fact, it’s just as important to exorcise the mind from that head as to exorcise the head from this mind. That little hairy sphere—a yard or so away (whether in my glass or not), punctured in seven places, with its strangely puckered and mobile surface—is so bewitched, so haunted, so privileged, so charged with Mana, that it is virtually invisible. One doesn’t look at one’s neighbour, but instead picks up a few signals and invents the rest: the presented shapes and colours and movements are no more attended to than the features of a pouncing tiger are coolly studied by its prey. And from this blindness, this substitution of imagination for inspection, proceed all manner of troubles. It’s this projected mind, this refusal to take a man as one finds him, which makes understanding impossible and love so difficult. When there remains no spook, peering at me from behind his eyes, the last barrier has fallen. We are one.