“…it is nature’s folly, not ours. When she set about her chief masterpiece, the making of man, she should have thought of one thing only. Instead, turning her head, looking over her shoulder, into each one of us she let creep instincts and desires which are utterly at variance with his main being, so that we are streaked, variegated, all of a mixture; the colours have run. Is the true self this which stands on the pavement in January, or that which bends over the balcony in June? Am I here or am I there? Or is the true self neither this nor that, neither here nor there, but something so varied and wandering that it is only when we give the rein to its wishes and let it take its way unimpeded that we are indeed ourselves?”–From “Street Haunting,” an essay by Virginia Woolf
Without imagination, we would be isolated, dried-up husks. We human beings are all so rich and varied inside that we feel compelled to explore other people’s innards with our mind’s eye. It’s our outer lives that can be dishonest. What does it mean to be true to yourself when there are so many selves–some better and some worse–to choose from? And is fantasy an escape, or our great consolation?