How to put simply that which is not a simple thing . . . ?
Solipsism, I suppose, is where we have to begin—the
notion that nothing exists but the self, or, at least, that
we cannot truly be aware of anything but our own
existence and experience. I can find, somewhere, off in
Shadow, anything I can visualize. Any of us can. This, in
good faith, does not transcend the limits of the ego. It
may be argued, and in fact has, by most of us, that we
create the shadows we visit out of the stuff of our own
psyches, that we alone truly exist, that the shadows we
traverse are but projections of our own desires. . . .
Whatever the merits of this argument, and there are
several, it does go far toward explaining much of the
family’s attitude toward people, places, and things
outside of Amber. Namely, we are toymakers and they,
our playthings—sometimes dangerously animated, to be
sure; but this, too, is part of the game. We are
impresarios by temperament, and we treat one another
accordingly. While solipsism does tend to leave one
slightly embarrassed on questions of etiology, one can
easily avoid the embarrassment by refusing to admit the
validity of the questions. Most of us are, as I have often
observed, almost entirely pragmatic in the conduct of
our affairs. Almost . . .
Yet—yet there is a disturbing element in the picture.
There is a place where the shadows go mad. . . . When
you purposely push yourself through layer after layer of
Shadow, surrendering—again, purposely—a piece of
your understanding every step of the way, you come at
last to a mad place beyond which you cannot go. Why
do this? In hope of an insight. I’d say, or a new game . .
. But when you come to this place, as we all have, you
realize that you have reached the limit of Shadow or the
end of yourself—synonymous terms, as we had always
thought. Now, though . . .
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