An identity is questioned only when it is menaced, as when the mighty begin to fall, or when the wretched begin to rise, or when the stranger enters the gates, never, thereafter, to be a stranger. Identity would seem to be the garment with which one covers the nakedness of the self: in which case, it is best that the garment be loose, a little like the robes of the desert, through which one's nakedness can always be felt, and, sometimes, discerned. This trust in one's nakedness is all that gives one the power to change one's robes.

An identity would seem to be arrived at by the way in which the person faces and uses his experience.

Sir, a man may be so much of everything, that he is nothing of anything.

I believe that man is in the last resort so free a being that his right to be what he believes himself to be cannot be contested.

I is another.