I beg your pardon for beginning with my I, but it’s all I can try to cling to at this point. It is as if I were grasping thin air, clutching at a straw. It might suffice to say that I am that I am, and that’s about it for the moment, whatever it may be, if anything at all, yet, since my nothingness compels me to persist forever for the time being, I must say something more about what cannot be properly affirmed, the nothing that I am without another, in order to avoid my I altogether. If I said I well enough, you might be offended by my pride, and then, in all humility, I would be moved to apologize for the grandeur of my insignificance, and wish, for your sake, that I were less than nothing. But would not to be less than nothing make something of nothing, and something to be ashamed of?