To be regardful of the earth is to be regardful of one’s self. Unfortunately the self does not understand this. It is only the self-less one which has this understanding.[1] Or rather this understanding is a part of the nature of the self-less one. As such, the self-less one stands closest to the being of the earth, and puts no burden upon it.

Does this mean that the self is a burden upon the earth? It does. But then it also means that the self is, at the same time, a burden upon itself, and that it can relieve itself of this burden only to the degree it becomes less and less of a self.

Thus the self is, by its very nature, a burdensome entity: this burden (this weight) is a constituent of its existence. The self is, in other words, heavy. The earth, on the other hand, is weightless: the only weight it carries is that of the self–the self that rides over it.

But, what does it mean–to be weightless? Does it mean not to have a body? No. For the earth does have a body. As a matter of fact, the earth is all body and nothing else. To be weightless means to carry the body in such a way that it loses all weight. (Only the earth knows how to do that. Or the self-less one.) It also means–to be without a self. Fortunately, the earth never had a self: it was born without one. That way, it was luckier than the self-less one, for the latter had to carve itself out of and away from the self.

* * *

Away from the self the self-less one has no relation. This is true about the earth as well. In the absence of a relation they present themselves with no occasion to accumulate weight. For it is precisely a relation–which the self is bound to enact–that imbues the self with weight. Weight, then, is the product of the relation between one self and another self. And since the self imposes a similar relation on to the earth as well–a one-sided relation–it acquires weight, and the earth experiences it as a weightful entity. The self-less one escapes this experience, for it keeps the self at an unbridgeable distance. However, this distance is not always a physical distance. Although the self-less one stays in the very midst of the beings with a self, but in relation to them it conducts itself in such a way that they cannot put their weight upon it: unlike the earth it can choose not to let them impose a relation upon it.

Clearly the earth is incapable of escaping the relation that the self imposes upon it. But this does not mean that it cannot get rid of this imposition. It has immense capacity to overturn whatever the self imposes upon it: it has the strength to overturn it or reduce it into nothingness.

This nothingness is the final fate of the self (and not eternal recurrence), a fate it continually tries to forget by enacting one relation after another, till it fills the entire space around it with its weight.

* * *

This space is the space of the earth. The self erects in this space what is called the world–the world which is the concatenation of relations between one self and the other selves. Thus the world is the manifestation of the appropriation by the self of the space of the earth. As such, the entire world–this multiplicity of relations between one self and the other selves–is a burden upon the earth.

In this world each self relates to the other selves in such a way that it becomes a burden upon them, and as a consequence the relation itself, in turn, becomes a burden. Only the one which breaks these relations, and breaks out of them, loses its weight and ceases to be a burden. This is the self-less one.

These relations are the relations of attachment or of exchange. Nevertheless, it is not true that where there is a relation of attachment, there will not be a relation of exchange. Both these kinds of relations can exist together.

In a relation of attachment the self feels so bound up with another self that the absence of the latter becomes unbearable. In this way in such a relation the existence of the self is dependent on the existence of another self. This dependence is precisely what gives a weight to the self, the self which may feel a similar kind of weight from another self. The feeling that the existence of another self is indissolubly bound up with the self’s own existence is a great burden to bear. However, mostly, even without realising it the self bears this burden and places this same kind of burden on the other selves.

In fact, looking closely, we can see a relation of exchange within this relation of attachment. In this relation attachment ends up assuming the shape of a demand craving for exchange. More often than not, goods do get exchanged. The self which feels attached is given a feeling of a similar kind of attachment by the other self. This is how the attachment lasts, and so the burden.

To get rid of this burden the self must break loose, without getting attached to yet another self. This is also the way to lose its own weight.

However, it is not always necessary to break this relation in order to lose weight. For, there is a kind of attachment which does not become a burden upon the other self. This attachment is called ‘love’ and it may go beyond a relation between two selves. In this attachment, a self feels attached to another self, or a thing, without putting the entire weight of its existence upon that self, or on the thing. This ‘not putting weight’ is equivalent to a loss of weight. How is this achieved? It is achieved by not demanding any love or attachment in return.[2]

So far as things are concerned–and we are talking here of natural objects–they are not in any case capable of extending any love or attachment in return. This incapacity gives them a unique stature, a stature that the self by its very nature does not have: namely, a capacity not to demand any attachment or love. Due to this capacity they become a perfect example of the weightless existence that the self lacks: neither giving nor demanding any attachment or love, they live in themselves. Thus their existence is in harmony with the existence of the earth.

We should notice this extraordinary situation. Things are in harmony with the earth–put no weight on it–precisely because they live a life of total detachment from it, and from one another. We could also say that this harmony is a consequence of the absence of a relation between them and the earth, and also among themselves. In the absence of this relation, they do not create a ‘world’.

* * *

Clearly, concerning the matter of putting a burden upon the earth, the self and the world are the only culprits. However, the world is not just the concatenation of relations between one self and the other selves: it encompasses as well the relation the self strikes with the things that it makes. These things are the entire paraphernalia of unnatural objects that the self gathers around itself, and with whom it enters into a particular kind of relation.

What is the nature of this relation? One could say that the self is attached to the objects that it makes and surrounds itself with, and that therefore it is, essentially, a relation of attachment. To a certain degree this is not incorrect. However, this attachment is very different from the attachment that the self has with another self. There, it wants a similar kind of attachment from another self or other selves, whereas in the present case the objects that it makes are incapable of extending this attachment in return. And they are incapable of this because, unlike another self or other selves, they are not a self, or, one could even say, they lack a self. But this characterisation still does not bring us very close to the nature of their being, for even the natural objects do not have a self and do not strike a relation. What is special about the unnatural objects made by the self is this: not only do they not have a self, but also, in addition–and this is where they differ from the natural objects–they are just an outward extension of the self, an extension that becomes physically detached from it. As such, the relation that the self has with them is a relation with itself, and therefore the attachment it feels for them is, in fact, an attachment with itself.

This allows us to say the following things about the self and these objects that it makes. Since the self is a weightful entity, the objects that it makes–objects which are an extension of itself–increase its weight. This being so, the self is not just a weightful entity, it is also an entity which has a tendency to increase its weight and is capable of doing so. And an implication of this is that with the increase in the objects that it makes, the weight of the self goes on increasing, and along with that the weight of the world.

However, with this increase in the weight of the self and the world, what happens to the earth? Is it that this phenomenon merely increases the burden upon the earth? No. There is another thing that happens. In order to make the objects that it makes, trying to extend itself, the self gouges out parts of the earth, for it is precisely from the body of the earth that it can make these objects. Having done that, it turns these parts–these pieces of the body of the earth–into objects with which it then becomes attached, in an attachment which is nothing more than an attachment with itself. In this entire process what was earlier a part of the earth becomes an extension of the self. Lumps of the body of the earth are dissociated from it and are transformed in such a way that they become appropriable for the self, and then it appropriates them to itself. What was earlier of the earth is taken away from it and is turned against it.

But does this diminish the earth and strengthen the self? And what does it reveal about the self?

More than anything else, it reveals that the self is a monster. And far from diminishing the earth, it only diminishes the self. Thus the self falls further down in our estimation.

The self–along with the world–is the only entity that has weight. Therefore, it would appear that the self and the world are diminished by losing weight. However, diminishment is not, actually, a matter of losing weight. In fact, it has just the opposite relationship with the latter. For, in the context of the earth, the less is the weight a thing has, the greater is its stature. As such, the weightier the self and the world become, the less they are. As a monstrous entity that the self has become–creating a world which is no less monstrous–one can say that it barely exists.

* * *

This self that barely exists–and yet occupies so much space–is all over the earth, and all over another self or other selves. Given the fact that it is a weightful entity and has a tendency to increase its weight, there is little possibility that it would learn to contain itself. Therefore, the self must cease to exist.

And here we must take note of a question that inevitably poses itself, a question that can surprise us: Does the self really exist? That is, does it have even a bare existence? Or is it just a fiction, a chimera that has propped itself up, inflated itself into an enormous shape and acquired a weight which is monstrous? What indeed is the self? And what does it mean to exist?

Trying to answer this question, we must begin by saying what only suggests itself, namely that to exist means to have no weight, that existence is absolutely weightless. And this weightlessness of it comes from a characteristic which belongs only to itself: it does not focus itself on itself. By doing that it gives a go by to the need for relation. In the absence of this need it does not prop itself on anything outside of itself. It is in this way that it acquires no weight.

But let us put this view as clearly as possible.

To have weight, for a thing, means to prop itself on another thing outside of itself. This propping takes place because there is a relation. The relation is there because there is a need for it. This need is created because the thing focuses itself on itself. And this is what this thing called the self does all the time. Further, it is precisely by doing this that it becomes a fiction, a chimera, a thing that does not exist.

This focusing itself on itself, then, which is a narcissistic operation, is what divests the self of its existence.

It becomes possible now to say what the self is. The self is a thing which is constantly away, apart from existence. It is that substance which existence does not carry. It is that extra which is unwanted by the latter, or rather which is not taken any account of, is not even noticed by it. As such, the self is utterly insignificant.

This is a paradoxical situation. The self does not exist, is utterly insignificant because it has weight. However, on the other hand, it has weight because it regards itself as the centre of existence. Nevertheless, what is even more paradoxical is this: this so called centre, this central point where the self regards itself to be, is yet incapable of ridding the self of the need for relation. In fact, it is precisely this point, this location of the self, which creates this need, impelling the self in the direction where it comes to acquire weight. For, the nature of this point is such that it locates the self already in a situation which will imbricate it in a concatenation of relations.

But let us dwell a little more on this situation.

One would think that a thing which is focused on itself is sufficient in itself. However, this is not true about the self. In the case of the self, this self-focusing–in which it engages all the time–reduces its stature, to the point where, losing its capacity to endure on its own, it catches hold of all the things around it. The paradox lies in this: the self’s belief that it will now endure is already an illusion, for in the process of self-focusing, and all that happens as a consequence, the self loses its existence. From now on, it lives as a fiction, as a chimera, as a thing that has blown itself up, but a thing which is visible only to itself. For, so far as existence is concerned, it has already ceased to exist.

The nature of existence is such that it has no central point. Nor is it true that it can look at itself. As a matter of fact, existence has no eyes, although we cannot say that it is blind. Blindness lies in that illusion which characterises the self, the illusion that tells it that it exists. Blindness lies in the fiction, the chimera which presents itself to itself and calls it existence. It lies in the weight–the volume and shape, or shapelessness–which goes by the name of the self.

Therefore, there is a lesson here for the self. In order to come into existence, it must move itself away from itself.

However to do that the self must recognise its true condition–namely that it does not exist. Unfortunately for the self, this can happen only if it turns itself into the self-less one.

In other words, it is only by leaving its existence as the self that the self is able to see what it was, or, more precisely, what it wasn’t. As self, it is incapable of looking at itself as something other than what it believes itself to be.

It is with this eye contaminated by deception that the self looks around itself and finds only itself there. This is how its gaze, which is focused on itself, remains focused there even when it looks around itself. With this gaze, the more the objects it looks at, the bigger it grows.

Its weight is endless.

Notes

[1] For an initial elaboration of the notion of the self-less one, see my unpublished essay ‘To be Fortunate’.

[2] For a previous discussion of the relations of attachment and exchange, see ‘To be Fortunate’, ibid.