This Book is written by Arthur Osborne.
You can’t give; you can only refrain from stealing,
Like a servant who says: “All right, I’ll let you keep
Your change from marketing, your soap and cheese.”
Nothing is yours to give, what ‘thing’, what ‘you’?
You imagine a person, then you think he owns
A cluster of electrons that you call a wife, A
house, a car, children, suits of clothes.
First find out if he exists at all.
In a world where things break down into a cloud
Of whirling atoms with no taste or smell,
No shape or colour, just a grey—what?
Energy? Mass? Not thingness anyway,
And thoughts about it—whirling, never still,
What is it you call ‘you’?
This minute’s body-shaped bag of atoms?
This minute’s thoughts? A you that has the thoughts?
What underlies them? What constant is there,
If anything? You’ll not find out by thinking
Because that’s thoughts. Nor by arguing.
There’s only one way: that’s to try and see—
Stop thoughts and see if anything remains.