What kind of life do I have for myself?, W. wonders. What do I experience of the horror of my own life? Because it's obvious to everyone, that horror; it's the first thing they see, but do I see it?
Do I have any real sense of the disgust my continued existence should engender? But then, how could I? It would be like a pig that developed a disgust at its own excrement. I'd live in contradiction. I'd breach the law of the excluded middle. I would exist knowing only I should cease to exist, and how could that be endured?
Where death is, you are not, said Epicetus. Where I am, I should not be, that's the truth of it, W. says. I'm like one of those unreal numbers in mathematics. You have to suppose they exist, in order to carry out mathematical operations, but they don't actually exist. Only I do exist, which invalidates in some way the whole order of existence, W. says.
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