VIII: Mr Blottisham and the Faithful Mirror (or Mr Blottisham Attempts to Carry Reality)

St Anselm's Senior Common Room, Late Afternoon

Rain had once again settled itself outside the windows with the determination of a long-term resident.

The fire glowed quietly.

Professor Quillibrace sat in his customary chair reading.

Miss Elowen Stray was writing notes in the increasingly dense collection of notebooks now surrounding her.

Peace reigned.

Then the door opened.

Mr Blottisham entered carrying an enormous mirror.

He manoeuvred awkwardly through the doorway, struck one side against the frame, apologised to it, and lowered it onto the table with visible effort.

Quillibrace stared.

Miss Stray stared.

Silence lingered.

Finally Quillibrace removed his spectacles.

"...should I ask?"

Blottisham smiled triumphantly.

"No need."

"I see."

"I have solved knowledge."

Miss Stray looked interested.

"The entire thing?"

"Entirely."

Blottisham tapped the mirror.

"There."

Silence.

Quillibrace looked at the mirror.

Then at Blottisham.

Then back at the mirror.

"...knowledge is apparently reflective."

"Exactly."

Blottisham sat down with satisfaction.

"The matter is perfectly obvious."

He gestured grandly.

"The world exists outside us."

"Mm."

"The mind forms images of the world."

"Mm."

"Knowledge is simply possessing accurate images."

He tapped the mirror.

"Like this."

Miss Stray smiled faintly.

"We do speak that way."

"Of course we do," said Blottisham.

"Science builds better representations."

"Yes."

"Truth means matching reality."

"Quite."

"Errors are distorted pictures."

He leaned back.

"Simple."

Quillibrace folded his hands.

"And thus the familiar picture quietly appears."

He began counting on his fingers.

"The world exists as objects and states of affairs."

Blottisham nodded.

"Correct."

"The mind forms internal representations."

"Yes."

"Knowledge consists in accurate representation."

"Precisely."

"And truth becomes correspondence between representation and reality."

Blottisham looked pleased.

"Exactly."

Quillibrace regarded him thoughtfully.

"Mr Blottisham."

"Yes?"

"Where precisely is this representation?"

Blottisham blinked.

"...inside the mind."

"More specifically."

Blottisham frowned.

"A mental picture."

Quillibrace nodded.

"And what makes a mental picture about anything?"

Silence.

Blottisham stared.

"...what?"

"Suppose one has an image in the mind."

"Yes."

"What makes it refer to a tree rather than a cloud?"

Blottisham frowned harder.

"Well..."

Quillibrace continued quietly.

"Suppose instead it is a sentence."

"Oh."

"What gives marks or sounds reference in the first place?"

"Oh."

"Suppose it is a neural pattern."

Blottisham had become very still.

"Oh no."

Miss Stray looked up.

"So the bridge itself seems to disappear."

Quillibrace nodded.

"The representational picture assumes meaning."

"Without explaining it."

"Precisely."

Blottisham stared at the mirror with growing suspicion.

Miss Stray was writing rapidly.

"And knowing itself doesn't seem to behave like copying."

Quillibrace smiled faintly.

"No."

"We act within situations."

"Yes."

"We respond to possibilities and constraints."

"Quite."

"A map is not useful because it resembles a territory."

Quillibrace nodded.

"It is useful because it supports navigation."

"And a theory does not function because it mirrors reality..."

"...but because it participates in prediction, explanation, and action."

Blottisham stared into the middle distance.

"So knowing begins to look less like representation."

"Yes."

"And more like participation."

"Quite."

Silence settled around the room.

Rain tapped softly against the windows.

The fire shifted and cracked.

Blottisham looked at the mirror for a long time.

Then he spoke.

"I have had a troubling thought."

Quillibrace looked entirely unsurprised.

"I had assumed we would end there."

Blottisham frowned deeply.

"If knowledge is not a mirror of reality..."

He glanced uneasily toward the object on the table.

"...what exactly have I been carrying all afternoon?"

Quillibrace considered this carefully.

"A mirror, Mr Blottisham."

A pause.

"Though with your usual philosophical efficiency, you appear to have carried it a very long way in order to discover that it mostly reflects yourself."

VII: Mr Blottisham and the Missing Identity (or Mr Blottisham Attempts to Pack Himself)

St Anselm's Senior Common Room, Late Morning

Outside the windows a determined wind had begun pursuing leaves across the college grounds with administrative intensity.

Professor Quillibrace sat by the fire reading quietly.

Miss Elowen Stray was making notes.

The peace endured for several pleasant minutes.

Then Mr Blottisham entered carrying an old leather suitcase.

Quillibrace looked up.

He stared at the suitcase.

Then at Blottisham.

Then back at the suitcase.

"...should I ask?"

Blottisham smiled triumphantly.

"No need."

"I see."

"I have solved identity."

Miss Stray looked interested.

"The entire thing?"

"Completely."

He lowered the suitcase carefully onto the table and patted it.

"There."

Silence.

Quillibrace regarded the suitcase.

"...identity is in the luggage."

Blottisham nodded.

"Exactly."

Quillibrace removed his spectacles and closed his eyes briefly.

"I had hoped for a quieter morning."

Blottisham sat down.

"The matter is perfectly obvious."

He opened the case slightly and peered inside with satisfaction.

"People possess identities."

"Mm."

"They search for themselves."

"Mm."

"They protect who they are."

"Mm."

"So naturally identity must be something one has."

He tapped the suitcase.

"Rather like this."

Miss Stray smiled faintly.

"We do speak that way."

"Of course we do," said Blottisham.

"We ask people to find themselves."

"We do."

"We worry about losing ourselves."

"Yes."

"We search for our true identity."

Blottisham leaned back.

"So identity is simply something one possesses."

Quillibrace folded his hands.

"And thus the inherited picture quietly appears."

He counted on his fingers.

"Individuals possess identities."

Blottisham nodded.

"Correct."

"Identity exists as a stable object beneath change."

"Obviously."

"Experiences accumulate around this identity."

"Yes."

"And authentic living involves discovering or expressing the identity one already possesses."

Blottisham looked pleased.

"Exactly."

Quillibrace looked at him for several moments.

"Mr Blottisham."

"Yes?"

"Where precisely is this identity located?"

Blottisham blinked.

"...inside me."

"More specifically."

Blottisham frowned.

"My memories."

Quillibrace nodded.

"Memories change."

"Oh."

"My personality then."

"Personality shifts across situations."

"Oh."

"My body."

"Bodies transform continuously."

"Oh."

"My values."

"Values themselves emerge and alter through relationships and experience."

Blottisham stared.

"Oh dear."

Miss Stray looked up from her notebook.

"So whenever we attempt to locate identity as a stable thing..."

"...it seems to retreat elsewhere."

"Quite."

Blottisham looked suspiciously at the suitcase.

Miss Stray was already writing rapidly.

"And if identity existed independently of relations..."

She looked up.

"...relationships would merely reveal what was already there."

Quillibrace nodded.

"But friendships reshape possibilities."

"Oh."

"Communities alter self-understanding."

"Oh."

"Languages open and close ways of construing experience."

"Oh no."

Blottisham sank lower into his chair.

"So identity does not simply express itself through relations."

"No."

"It seems to emerge through them."

"Precisely."

Silence settled over the room.

The wind rattled the windows.

Blottisham stared at the suitcase as though it had quietly betrayed him.

Quillibrace leaned back.

"Suppose instead identity is not a possession."

Miss Stray looked thoughtful.

"It becomes something continually actualised through organised relations."

"Yes."

"Not something one has..."

"...but something one becomes."

Quillibrace smiled faintly.

Blottisham remained motionless for some time.

Eventually he spoke.

"I have had a troubling thought."

Quillibrace looked unsurprised.

"I was waiting for it."

Blottisham frowned deeply.

"If identity is not something one carries around..."

He glanced nervously at the suitcase.

"...what exactly have I packed?"

Quillibrace considered this carefully.

"Two sandwiches, Mr Blottisham."

A pause.

"And what appears to be a sock of uncertain historical significance."

VI: Mr Blottisham and the Invisible Parcel (or Mr Blottisham Attempts to Post Information)

St Anselm's Senior Common Room, Mid-Morning

The weather outside had become undecided and was alternating between sunlight and rain with visible uncertainty.

Professor Quillibrace sat near the fire reading.

Miss Elowen Stray had arranged notebooks and papers around herself in an increasingly elaborate geography.

The peace lasted for several minutes.

Then Mr Blottisham entered carrying a large parcel wrapped in brown paper and string.

Quillibrace looked up slowly.

"...should I ask?"

Blottisham lowered the parcel onto the table with considerable effort.

"No need."

"I see."

"I have solved information."

Miss Stray looked interested.

"The entire concept?"

"Completely."

Blottisham tapped the parcel.

"There it is."

Silence.

Quillibrace stared at the parcel.

Then at Blottisham.

Then back at the parcel.

"...you have wrapped information in paper."

"Yes."

"Astonishing."

Blottisham sat down confidently.

"The matter is perfectly straightforward. Information is sent, received, stored, transferred and delivered."

He gestured toward the parcel.

"So naturally information must be a thing."

Quillibrace removed his spectacles with a small sigh.

"I had hoped we might avoid physical demonstrations this morning."

Miss Stray smiled faintly.

"We do speak that way."

"Of course we do," said Blottisham.

"Computers send information. Radios transmit information. Telephones receive information."

Quillibrace folded his hands.

"And thus the familiar picture quietly emerges."

He began counting on his fingers.

"Information exists as a thing."

Blottisham nodded.

"Yes."

"The thing is packaged into signals."

"Correct."

"Signals carry information."

"Precisely."

"Receivers extract the information again."

Blottisham sat back.

"Simple."

Quillibrace regarded him for several moments.

"Mr Blottisham."

"Yes?"

"Where exactly is the information while it is travelling?"

Blottisham blinked.

"...inside the signal."

Quillibrace nodded thoughtfully.

"Marks on paper?"

Blottisham hesitated.

"Yes?"

"Remain marks on paper."

"Oh."

"Electrical impulses remain electrical impulses."

"Oh."

"Sound waves remain changing patterns of air pressure."

Blottisham shifted uneasily.

"Oh dear."

Miss Stray looked up.

"A spoken sentence in an unfamiliar language may communicate nothing."

"Quite."

"The same sentence in a familiar context may change an entire conversation."

Quillibrace nodded.

"Yet the signal itself remains identical."

Blottisham frowned.

"So something else changed."

"Indeed."

Silence settled briefly.

Blottisham looked suspiciously at the parcel.

Miss Stray was writing rapidly now.

"So information begins to lose its object-like character."

"Quite."

Quillibrace leaned back.

"And there is another difficulty."

Blottisham looked apprehensive.

"There always is."

"If information were literally transported..."

Quillibrace steepled his fingers.

"...meaning ought to arrive automatically whenever signals arrive."

Blottisham stared.

"But it doesn't."

"No."

"Signals constantly require interpretation."

Miss Stray nodded.

"Contexts, histories, expectations, relationships..."

"...all participate in what distinctions become meaningful."

"Precisely."

Blottisham looked down at the parcel as if it had become personally unreliable.

"So information is not hidden inside signals."

"No."

"And signals are not carrying invisible informational objects."

"No."

"Oh no."

Quillibrace smiled faintly.

"Suppose instead that information emerges through relations among signals, systems, contexts, and acts of construal."

Miss Stray looked thoughtful.

"So signals participate in actualising informational relations."

"Yes."

"Rather than transporting informational things."

"Quite."

Outside the windows sunlight and rain had apparently decided to occur simultaneously.

Blottisham stared at the parcel for some time.

Eventually he spoke.

"I have had a troubling thought."

Quillibrace looked unsurprised.

"As expected."

Blottisham frowned deeply.

"If information is not actually travelling around inside things..."

He looked anxiously at the package.

"...what exactly have I been posting all morning?"

Quillibrace considered this.

"Brown paper and string, Mr Blottisham."

A pause.

"And at considerable expense."

V: Mr Blottisham and the Pile of Individuals (or Mr Blottisham Attempts to Construct a Society)

St Anselm's Senior Common Room, Following Morning

Morning light had entered the common room reluctantly, as if uncertain whether the effort would be worthwhile.

Professor Quillibrace sat reading a newspaper.

Miss Elowen Stray sat nearby with tea and notebook open.

Mr Blottisham arrived carrying a small sack over one shoulder.

He lowered it onto the table with evident satisfaction.

There came the sound of stones shifting.

Quillibrace looked up slowly.

"...should I ask?"

Blottisham smiled.

"No need."

"I see."

"I have solved society."

Miss Stray looked up.

"The entire thing?"

"Yes."

He untied the sack and emptied a collection of stones onto the table.

Several rolled in different directions.

Blottisham gestured triumphantly.

"There."

Silence.

Quillibrace stared at the stones.

Then at Blottisham.

Then back at the stones.

"...I confess I require assistance."

Blottisham looked delighted.

"It is obvious."

He picked up a stone.

"This is an individual."

He pointed at the pile.

"This is society."

Miss Stray blinked.

"A pile of stones?"

"Exactly."

Quillibrace closed his newspaper very slowly.

"I had feared something of this sort."

Blottisham continued enthusiastically.

"First there are separate people. Then they interact. Large numbers of interactions create families, institutions, cultures, and societies."

He sat back with satisfaction.

"Society is simply lots of individuals together."

Quillibrace regarded him with a long expressionless stare.

"And so the inherited picture appears."

Blottisham smiled proudly.

"It does."

Quillibrace folded his hands.

"Individuals exist independently."

Blottisham nodded.

"Yes."

"They possess their own thoughts, values, and identities."

"Correct."

"Relations then emerge between individuals."

"Exactly."

"And society becomes the sum of these relations."

Blottisham spread his hands.

"Simple."

Quillibrace was silent.

Miss Stray tilted her head slightly.

"It does seem intuitive."

"Very."

Quillibrace nodded.

"One sees people. One sees interactions among people. One concludes that individuals come first and society comes afterwards."

Blottisham looked pleased.

"Finally."

Quillibrace looked at him.

"Mr Blottisham."

"Yes?"

"How exactly does an isolated individual become social?"

Blottisham frowned.

"What do you mean?"

"Language?"

"Oh."

"Learned through others."

"Oh."

"Meanings?"

"Oh."

"Practices, roles, expectations, norms?"

Blottisham's expression began slowly collapsing.

"Oh dear."

Miss Stray looked thoughtful.

"Even the categories through which we understand ourselves."

Quillibrace nodded.

"Parent."

"Oh."

"Friend."

"Oh."

"Nation."

"Oh."

"Promise."

"Oh no."

Silence settled.

Blottisham looked suspiciously at his stones.

Miss Stray was writing rapidly.

"So what looked individual already seems dependent upon relations."

"Quite."

Blottisham frowned.

"Still, individuals remain individuals."

"Certainly."

Quillibrace nodded.

"But consider something else."

He leaned forward slightly.

"If society were merely a collection of independent units..."

He gestured lightly.

"...then removing relations should leave the individuals largely intact."

Blottisham nodded uncertainly.

"I suppose so."

"But changes in institutions alter behaviour."

"Oh."

"Changes in relationships alter identity."

"Oh."

"Changes in language alter possibilities for meaning."

Blottisham stared at the table.

"Oh no."

The stones had somehow become accusatory.

Miss Stray looked up.

"So the social environment does not merely surround individuals."

"No."

"It participates in shaping the conditions through which individuality itself emerges."

"Precisely."

Blottisham stared at his pile of stones as if discovering betrayal at geological scale.

"So society isn't simply built from individuals."

"No."

"And individuals don't simply appear first."

"No."

"Oh dear."

Quillibrace leaned back.

"Suppose instead that individuals and societies emerge together through ongoing relations."

Miss Stray nodded slowly.

"So individuality becomes something continually actualised."

"Yes."

"Not possessed in isolation."

"Quite."

Rain had begun again outside.

The fire murmured quietly.

Blottisham sat staring at the stones for some time.

Eventually he spoke.

"I have had a troubling thought."

Quillibrace looked unsurprised.

"Again?"

Blottisham frowned deeply.

"If society is not merely a pile of individuals..."

He looked anxiously at the sack.

"...why exactly have I spent all morning collecting stones?"

Quillibrace considered this.

"An excellent question, Mr Blottisham."

A pause.

"Possibly geology."

IV: Mr Blottisham and the Missing Message (or Mr Blottisham Attempts to Post a Meaning)

St Anselm's Senior Common Room, Early Evening

The common room had entered its quieter hours. Lamps had been lit, shadows had lengthened, and the fire had settled into occasional thoughtful cracklings.

Professor Quillibrace sat reading correspondence.

Miss Elowen Stray had become absorbed in notes.

Mr Blottisham entered carrying a sealed envelope and wearing the look of a man who had returned from battle victorious.

He sat down heavily.

"I have solved everything."

Quillibrace looked up.

"Everything?"

"Communication."

Quillibrace closed his letter very slowly.

"I see."

Blottisham placed the envelope triumphantly upon the table.

"It is obvious when one thinks about it."

Miss Stray looked interested.

"In what way?"

Blottisham spread his hands.

"I possess thoughts."

"Mm."

"I convert the thoughts into words."

"Mm."

"The words travel outward."

"Mm."

"You receive them and reconstruct the thoughts."

He leaned back with satisfaction.

"There."

Silence.

Quillibrace looked at him.

Blottisham smiled confidently.

Nothing happened.

Eventually Blottisham frowned.

"You appear unconvinced."

"I am attempting to identify where the disaster begins."

Miss Stray smiled faintly.

"We do often speak that way."

"Of course we do," said Blottisham.

"Thought becomes signal. Signal becomes thought again."

Quillibrace folded his hands.

"The familiar picture does indeed assume something like this."

He began counting quietly on his fingers.

"Thoughts exist privately within individuals."

Blottisham nodded.

"Language encodes those thoughts."

"Precisely."

"Words carry meanings."

"Obviously."

"Listeners decode those meanings."

Blottisham sat back with satisfaction.

"Simple."

Quillibrace looked at him for several moments.

"Mr Blottisham."

"Yes?"

"Where exactly is the meaning while it is travelling?"

Blottisham blinked.

"...inside the words."

Quillibrace nodded thoughtfully.

"A sentence spoken sarcastically."

Blottisham paused.

"Oh."

"The literal words remain identical."

"Oh."

"The meaning changes."

"Oh dear."

Miss Stray looked up.

"A joke can fail completely in a different context."

"Quite."

"A phrase may be affectionate in one relationship and insulting in another."

Quillibrace nodded.

"Yet the words themselves remain unchanged."

Blottisham looked troubled.

"Well perhaps meaning sits inside people's minds instead."

Quillibrace raised an eyebrow.

"And if meanings originate privately within isolated individuals..."

He leaned slightly forward.

"...how exactly do they become shared?"

Silence.

Blottisham stared.

"Well..."

"If meanings remain entirely internal, communication becomes a peculiar sort of miracle."

Miss Stray was writing rapidly now.

"Because how could one ever know that what leaves one mind is what enters another?"

Quillibrace smiled faintly.

"Precisely."

Blottisham looked increasingly uneasy.

"So... words are not carrying meanings around."

"No."

"And meanings are not private parcels moving between minds."

"No."

"Oh no."

Quillibrace leaned back.

"The curious thing is that people do not ordinarily communicate by exchanging ready-made packages."

Miss Stray looked thoughtful.

"Children don't learn language by decoding messages."

"No."

"They learn through participation."

"Exactly."

"Shared situations, histories, relationships..."

"...all participate in what meanings become."

Blottisham looked at the envelope on the table suspiciously.

"So meaning doesn't simply arrive intact."

"No."

"It emerges through relations."

Quillibrace nodded.

"The transported object begins quietly disappearing."

Miss Stray looked down at her notes.

"So language is not primarily transporting meanings."

"No."

"It participates in the ongoing actualisation of meaning."

"Quite."

Blottisham sat motionless.

Rain had begun again outside.

The fire cracked softly.

At length he spoke.

"I have had a troubling thought."

Quillibrace looked unsurprised.

"Again?"

Blottisham frowned deeply.

"If words do not contain meanings..."

He glanced anxiously at the envelope.

"...what exactly have letters been carrying all these years?"

Quillibrace considered this carefully.

"Mostly paper, Mr Blottisham."

A pause.

"And occasionally disappointment."

III: Mr Blottisham and the Lost Archive (or Mr Blottisham Misplaces His Memories)

St Anselm's Senior Common Room, Late Afternoon

Outside, rain had surrendered to a weak and uncertain sunlight. The common room had settled into that comfortable hour in which conversation became slower and teacups accumulated unnoticed.

Professor Quillibrace sat reading.

Miss Elowen Stray was writing quietly.

Mr Blottisham entered carrying three books and wearing an expression of exceptional confidence.

He placed the books triumphantly upon the table.

"There."

Quillibrace looked up cautiously.

"I distrust that tone."

Blottisham ignored him.

"I have solved our recent difficulties."

"Indeed."

"Time disappeared. Then the self disappeared."

He nodded gravely.

"But memory remains entirely secure."

Miss Stray looked interested.

"In what sense?"

Blottisham tapped the books.

"Libraries."

A silence followed.

Quillibrace closed his book very slowly.

Blottisham continued.

"The thing is obvious. Experiences happen. They leave records inside us. Later we retrieve them. Simple."

Quillibrace looked toward the ceiling briefly, as though consulting powers beyond ordinary academic procedure.

"I see."

Blottisham sat down, pleased with himself.

"The mind is essentially a filing system."

Quillibrace removed his spectacles.

"Mr Blottisham."

"Yes?"

"Has anyone ever informed you that confidence and accuracy are not the same phenomenon?"

Blottisham frowned.

Miss Stray leaned forward.

"We do speak this way."

"Of course we do," said Blottisham.

"We store memories."

"Yes."

"We retrieve memories."

"Precisely."

"We lose memories."

Blottisham spread his hands.

"Exactly."

Quillibrace folded his own.

"And so the inherited picture begins to emerge."

He spoke carefully.

"Experiences create internal records."

Blottisham nodded.

"The records are stored somewhere."

"Yes."

"Remembering retrieves these records."

"Exactly."

"And successful remembering reproduces the original experience accurately."

Blottisham looked delighted.

"I knew there was a reason I came here."

Quillibrace sighed softly.

Miss Stray frowned slightly.

"It does sound natural."

"Very natural."

Quillibrace nodded.

"Which is often where the danger begins."

Blottisham looked suspicious.

"Oh no."

Quillibrace continued.

"Where exactly are memories stored?"

Blottisham pointed immediately at his head.

"The brain."

"Certainly the brain matters."

Blottisham relaxed.

"Good."

"Damage to particular structures can alter memory profoundly."

"Excellent."

"But identifying involvement does not automatically explain storage."

Blottisham paused.

"...what?"

Quillibrace gestured toward the books.

"A library is not explained merely by identifying shelves."

Miss Stray nodded.

"And a song is not explained merely by identifying speakers."

Blottisham looked uncomfortable.

Quillibrace continued quietly.

"And memory itself behaves rather strangely for a storage system."

Blottisham frowned.

"In what way?"

"Memories change."

"Only small details."

"Details disappear."

"Oh."

"New details emerge."

"Oh."

"The same event may be remembered differently years later."

Blottisham shifted in his chair.

"Well..."

"Two people often remember the same occasion quite differently."

"Oh dear."

"And your own memories alter across contexts."

Blottisham stared at the books on the table as though they had personally betrayed him.

Miss Stray was writing rapidly.

"So if memory were merely retrieval..."

She looked up.

"...why would the stored object keep changing?"

Quillibrace smiled faintly.

"Precisely."

Blottisham looked troubled.

"So what are you saying?"

Quillibrace leaned back.

"When we remember, we do not ordinarily re-enter a preserved past."

Silence.

"We remember from somewhere."

Miss Stray looked thoughtful.

"From the present."

"Quite."

"Current concerns, emotions, relationships, contexts..."

"...all shape what becomes meaningful."

Blottisham stared into the middle distance.

"So the past doesn't simply arrive intact."

"No."

"The remembering itself is active."

Quillibrace nodded.

"The supposedly stored object begins to look rather less like a thing hidden somewhere."

"And more like an ongoing process of construal."

"Exactly."

Blottisham looked alarmed.

"You cannot remove memory as well."

"No one has removed memory."

Quillibrace reached for his tea.

"Photographs remain."

Blottisham relaxed slightly.

"Good."

"Diaries remain."

"Excellent."

"Records remain."

Blottisham sighed with relief.

"But perhaps memories were never objects sitting in an internal archive."

The relief vanished immediately.

Miss Stray looked down at her notes.

"So remembering becomes something we do."

"Yes."

"Not something we find."

Quillibrace smiled faintly.

Rain had resumed outside.

Blottisham stared into the fire with the expression of a man reviewing several decades of assumptions.

Finally he spoke.

"I have had a troubling thought."

Quillibrace looked up.

"I had anticipated as much."

Blottisham frowned.

"If memories are not sitting somewhere inside me..."

He looked around uneasily.

"...what exactly have I been spending all these years trying to remember where I left?"

Quillibrace considered this for a moment.

"Your spectacles, Mr Blottisham."

A pause.

"They remain lost by entirely conventional means."

II: Mr Blottisham and the Missing Self (or Mr Blottisham Searches for Himself)

St Anselm's Senior Common Room, Early Afternoon

Sunlight had briefly appeared outside before apparently reconsidering its position and withdrawing behind clouds.

Professor Quillibrace sat beside the fire with a book resting unopened upon his lap.

Miss Elowen Stray was making notes.

Mr Blottisham entered carrying a teacup and the expression of a man enjoying unusual confidence.

He sat down heavily.

"I have been thinking."

Quillibrace looked up cautiously.

"Oh dear."

Blottisham ignored him.

"I have concluded that while our recent discussion concerning time was needlessly unsettling, there are certain matters upon which no confusion exists whatsoever."

"How fortunate," said Quillibrace.

"The self."

Blottisham nodded firmly.

"There I am."

He pointed at himself.

"Perfectly obvious."

Quillibrace regarded him quietly.

"One hesitates to interfere with certainty of that magnitude."

Miss Stray smiled faintly.

Blottisham continued.

"Experiences come and go. Opinions change. Circumstances alter. Yet beneath it all there remains..."

He struck his chest lightly.

"...me."

Quillibrace was silent.

Blottisham frowned.

"You appear unconvinced."

"I am merely waiting."

"For what?"

"For the complications to arrive under their own momentum."

Miss Stray leaned forward.

"We do normally speak that way."

"Of course we do," said Blottisham. "Thoughts belong to us. Feelings belong to us. Memories belong to us."

Quillibrace nodded slowly.

"Interesting language."

"What is?"

"'Belong.'"

Blottisham sighed.

"Not this again."

Quillibrace folded his hands.

"The familiar picture assumes something rather specific."

He spoke carefully.

"There exists a self. The self possesses experiences. Thoughts occur to it. Feelings happen within it. Identity persists beneath change."

Blottisham looked satisfied.

"Excellent."

"I am describing the picture, not endorsing it."

Blottisham's satisfaction diminished slightly.

Miss Stray looked thoughtful.

"So experience becomes something happening around an underlying object."

"Precisely."

"The self sits at the centre."

"Quite so."

Blottisham spread his hands.

"Again, I fail to detect any problem."

Quillibrace nodded.

"Then perhaps you would kindly indicate where this self resides."

Blottisham stared.

"In me."

"Yes."

A pause.

"...where precisely?"

Blottisham frowned.

"In my body."

Quillibrace nodded.

"The body changes continuously."

"Oh."

"Cells regenerate. Capabilities emerge and disappear. Appearance alters."

Blottisham waved this aside.

"Then memory."

"Memories fade."

"Oh."

"Distort."

"Oh dear."

"Occasionally disappear altogether."

Blottisham looked troubled.

"Personality then."

Quillibrace tilted his head.

"Do people behave identically across childhood, adulthood, friendship, grief, work, and old age?"

Blottisham stared into his tea.

"No..."

A small silence settled.

Miss Stray looked up from her notebook.

"So the problem isn't merely that these things change."

Quillibrace nodded.

"No."

"The problem is that the stable self seems to move elsewhere whenever we try to locate it."

"Exactly."

Blottisham looked alarmed.

"You make it sound as though the self is hiding."

Quillibrace considered this.

"It does display certain evasive tendencies."

Blottisham shifted uneasily.

Miss Stray spoke quietly.

"And if the self exists first as an independent thing..."

"Then relationships become secondary additions," said Quillibrace.

"One first becomes an individual and only afterwards enters social life."

Blottisham looked puzzled.

"Naturally."

Quillibrace raised an eyebrow.

"Language?"

Blottisham blinked.

"What about it?"

"You learned it through others."

"Oh."

"Meanings emerge through interaction."

"Oh."

"Values arise through social coordination."

Blottisham sank slightly lower.

"Oh no."

Miss Stray had begun writing rapidly.

"Even the categories through which we understand ourselves come from relations."

Quillibrace nodded.

"The supposedly independent self begins to look rather less like an origin."

"And rather more like something emerging through relations."

"Quite."

Blottisham looked genuinely distressed.

"You cannot simply remove the self."

"No one has removed anything."

Quillibrace reached calmly for his tea.

"Names remain."

Blottisham looked hopeful.

"Good."

"Memories remain."

"Excellent."

"Lives continue."

Blottisham relaxed.

"But perhaps the self was never a hidden object sitting behind experience."

The relaxation disappeared immediately.

Miss Stray looked thoughtful.

"So identity becomes something continually actualised rather than permanently possessed."

Quillibrace smiled faintly.

"Yes."

"And individuality changes too."

"Indeed."

"Individuals become distinguishable organisations emerging within relations."

Silence settled around the room.

Rain had returned and was tapping softly against the windows.

Blottisham stared into the fire for a long while.

Finally he spoke.

"I have had a troubling thought."

Quillibrace looked up.

"Again?"

Blottisham frowned.

"If there isn't some stable little fellow inside me running everything..."

He looked around cautiously.

"...who exactly has been eating all my biscuits?"

Quillibrace considered this for a moment.

"A highly persistent organisation of relations, Mr Blottisham."

A pause.

"With remarkably consistent dietary commitments."

I: Mr Blottisham and the Vanishing Present (or Mr Blottisham Attempts to Locate Now)

St Anselm's Senior Common Room, Late Morning

Rain tapped gently at the windows. A coal fire murmured in the grate. Professor Quillibrace sat with an expression of severe neutrality over a cup of tea that had long since ceased to contribute meaningfully to the concept of warmth.

Miss Elowen Stray sat opposite with notebook open.

Mr Blottisham had arrived carrying a newspaper beneath his arm and the unmistakable confidence of a man approaching a subject he understood entirely and incorrectly.

He lowered himself into a chair.

"Time," he announced, "is perfectly straightforward."

Quillibrace looked up.

"How comforting."

Blottisham nodded.

"It is merely an invisible sort of road. We move along it. Yesterday is behind us. Tomorrow lies ahead. Very simple."

Miss Stray tilted her head.

"We do speak that way."

"We all speak that way," said Blottisham triumphantly. "Which rather settles matters."

Quillibrace stirred his tea absent-mindedly.

"Human beings also once spoke of the sun moving around the Earth."

Blottisham frowned.

"That seems different."

"It often does."

A pause followed.

Quillibrace placed down his spoon.

"The curious thing," he said, "is that the image of time as a sort of invisible landscape has become so familiar that it no longer appears to us as an image."

Miss Stray nodded slowly.

"We treat it as simple description."

"Precisely."

Blottisham waved a hand.

"Because it is description. Things happen in time."

Quillibrace glanced at him.

"'In' is doing suspiciously large amounts of work there."

Blottisham looked mildly offended.

"What else should things happen in?"

"That," said Quillibrace, "is exactly the question."

Miss Stray leaned forward.

"So we imagine time as a container?"

"Yes."

Quillibrace folded his hands.

"Time exists independently. Moments are locations within it. Events occupy those locations. History stretches itself across the whole structure."

Blottisham looked pleased.

"Excellent. I was right."

"I did not say the picture was correct."

Blottisham sighed.

Quillibrace continued.

"The structure is quietly borrowed from space. We understand objects occupying positions in space, so we project the same arrangement onto temporal experience."

"Moments become places," said Miss Stray.

"Indeed."

"And events become objects moving through those places."

"Exactly."

Blottisham crossed his arms.

"I still fail to detect a problem."

Quillibrace regarded him thoughtfully.

"Very well. Let us locate the present."

Blottisham blinked.

"The present is... now."

"Excellent. How large is it?"

Blottisham frowned.

"What do you mean?"

"If the present has duration, then one may divide that duration again. If it possesses no duration at all, then it becomes difficult to understand how anything occupies it."

Blottisham stared.

"Hm."

Miss Stray looked down at her notes.

"So perhaps the difficulty isn't merely identifying the present."

Quillibrace nodded.

"Perhaps the difficulty lies in treating moments as things."

Blottisham looked unhappy.

Quillibrace continued calmly.

"And there is a second curiosity."

"Oh dear."

"We also say that time flows."

Blottisham brightened.

"Yes! Quite right."

Quillibrace folded his arms.

"Relative to what?"

Silence.

Blottisham stared.

"What?"

"Movement normally occurs across time. An object changes position at different times."

"Yes."

"So if time itself moves..."

Blottisham's expression began to contract inward.

"...then through what does it move?"

Miss Stray looked up slowly.

"Another time."

"Quite."

"And then that time would require another."

"Precisely."

Blottisham stared into the middle distance.

"Oh no."

The fire cracked softly.

At length Miss Stray spoke.

"So the difficulty isn't that the picture lacks details."

"No."

Quillibrace nodded.

"The difficulty may be structural."

He leaned back slightly.

"The picture turns relations into objects."

"Events become things in moments," said Miss Stray quietly.

"Moments become things in time."

"And time itself becomes another thing behind them all."

Quillibrace smiled faintly.

"Exactly."

Blottisham sat motionless.

Then:

"...I dislike where this is going."

Quillibrace ignored him.

"Suppose instead that change comes first."

Miss Stray looked interested.

"Meaning that temporal order emerges from relations among actualisations?"

"Quite so."

Blottisham looked alarmed.

"You cannot simply remove time."

"No one has removed anything."

Quillibrace reached for his tea.

"Clocks continue ticking. Tuesdays remain regrettably frequent."

Blottisham relaxed slightly.

"But events would no longer occupy positions in some invisible temporal landscape."

Miss Stray was already writing.

"Time becomes a construal emerging from changing relations."

Quillibrace nodded.

"The inversion is small."

"And rather large at the same time."

"Yes."

Silence settled for a moment.

Rain traced faint lines against the windows.

Miss Stray looked thoughtful.

"So the past and future stop being places."

"They become orientations."

"And the present..."

Quillibrace smiled faintly.

"...becomes the ongoing edge at which potential becomes actualised."

Mr Blottisham stared at the fire for a very long time.

Finally he said:

"I've just had a troubling thought."

Quillibrace looked up.

"Yes?"

Blottisham frowned.

"If clocks do not measure the movement of time..."

He looked around nervously.

"...what exactly have I been late for all these years?"

Quillibrace considered this.

"Relations, Mr Blottisham."

A pause.

"Entirely relations."