Usually we think of our “self” as an individual independent substance, an enduring existence. But if we think about it carefully, this is by no means the case. I have an album of photographs taken of me every few years from infancy on. When I look at it these days I am filled with an utterly strange feeling. It so clearly shows the changes I have gone through while gradually advancing in age. How my face and figure have changed with the years! I can only wonder at the marvel of creation. Within this constant change, what endures? The birthmark under my eye, the peculiar slope of my head—only
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