Identity is a bag and a gag. Yet it exists for me with all the force of a fatal disease. Obviously I am here, a mind and a body. To say there’s no proof my body exists would be arty and specious and if my mind is more ephemeral, less provable, the solution of being a writer with solid (touchable, tearable, burnable) books is as close as anyone has come to a perfect answer.
ATTRIBUTION:
Judith Rossner (b. 1935), U.S. author. Nine Months in the Life of an Old Maid, pt. 2 (1969).
