want to live. I had no one to share my secret guilt with. My involvement in life was intense and erratic. I had horrible nightmares which frightened me a lot in which geometrical figures moved fast and got huge and complex, with no way for me to stop them doing what they wanted. I could neither tell what my nightmares were nor get any relief from anywhere. I was clearly a neurotic child, full of anxiety and fears, alternately acceptable and impossible, creating lots of questions for those around me who were naturally primarily interested in themselves and unable to do much for me. At school I slipped to the bottom of the class. I did not study and did not do my homework. Bad marks were not received gladly at home since all my brothers and sisters who went to that same school had done well most of the time. I was considered an all round failure whose future was very much in doubt. I have studied guilt from within, and for many years. I have watched myself and everyone around. I spent time mainly daydreaming, involving myself in wishful thinking of the type fairy tales are made from. I wished so fervently to get that instant wealth which I could hand out to my immediate family to compensate for all they were missing due to their father's death. “Their father,” I used to say, rather than: “Our father,” for I was to pay for my sins and they should not. When people around us died I was not very moved. My imagination occasionally took me into an area where their grief became as real as my mother's, but I exaggerated my own
"Is there any hope that we may ever know what death is? Since it is a problem of knowing, we need to find the epistemological devices that w...