Need is the beginning of truthfulness: the need that recognizes that I cannot talk myself into language now any more than when I was a child, that I cannot see my own face, look into my own eyes or my own soul. What I cannot do for myself is to offer the gift of difference, the only real gift since it is the only thing not planned and package by my ego. I can’t give myself what is given in a new friend, a lover, a song heard for the first time, the claim of a sufferer upon my attention and compassion, the words my daughter has learned for the first time on her second birthday. And this is a need I may only come to see when I have lost or damaged the difference of another: I am bored by my friend; I have analyzed the music; I can explain why children starve in Africa; my daughter has grown up. It is my face and my fancies and my words that are stuck over the once-startling, the once-alien surface of the world, and I know I shall not be enlarged like that again.