This story begins at a hypothetical party. The company’s good, the night is young and there’s plenty to eat and drink. So naturally, you’re happy. Hypothetically.But half-way through the evening, a pleasant stranger comes up
and says “Hi – who are you?”.
So you smile and give your name. But the stranger leans in closer, and says, with an intensity that kind of unnerves you: “No. I mean – who are you?”
So you start wittering on about what you do in life and your family and where you come from, and all the things that seem to define you as a person, but the amusement in your inquisitor’s eyes tells you that this still isn’t hitting the mark.
“No no. That’s not who you are. That’s the stuff you do and the people you belong to; they’re important, but they’re not you. Take them away, or wake up alone some day on a desert island and that part of you called ‘you’ is still there. So who are you?”
Of course, by this stage you’re looking around nervously for any excuse to break off the conversation, so when the doorbell goes you practically leap across the room saying “Sorry. I’d better just get that.”
And you make your escape into the hallway before spending the rest of the night avoiding the stranger like the plague. But you can’t avoid the question. It’s there now: and the worrying thing is, you don’t have a clue how to begin to answer it.
