Christianity presupposes that sinful humans flee from close scrutiny of their inner lives. In the earliest example of shame, Adam and Eve attempt to hide their nakedness from their creator once they acquire knowledge of good and evil. Caan fled after killing his brother, believing that he could hide his sin. Shame may be natural and most people have secrets that they tell no one. But there is also in us, I believe, a desire to disclose, to confess, to be exposed that is greater than the desire to hide. Humans want, perhaps even need, to confess all to another. This urge is not driven by a desire for absolution, although it has been exploited for that purpose. It is rather a fundamental need to be known by another. We are, in the end, the only witnesses to the totality of our lives. There is a constant yearning to have that perspective validated by another.

From St. Augustine’s Confessionsto today’s reality television shows, people choose to subject themselves to public scrutiny. There are also the private rites of psychological analysis and sacramental confession. Dostoevsky brilliantly existentialized the phenomenon in Crime and Punishment and in The Brothers Karamazov. But the question remains, why do we do it? It seems particularly irrational when to confess brings punishment or scorn.

But this need to reveal is not limited to the negative. In fact, the confessional phenomenon is but a sub-species of a more general condition. We want to be known. It is a deep-seated, fundamental reaction to our latent fear of solipsism. The awareness that we are always and utterly alone eats at us, breeds emptiness and anxiety, carves away a hole that cannot be filled by the ghostly internal dialogue that we know as consciousness. This desire to be known, is at the root of much of the strange behavior of human existence. It is intertwined with sexual desire. Within the sexual act there exists a physical complement to the psychical phenomenon of separation. But the connection that obtains physically cannot effect a similar connection between the identities of the individuals. We are doomed to be separated from the other, both physically and consciously. (This idea is best described by Aristophenes in Plato’s Symposium in his account of our androgynous ancestors, split down the middle by the angry gods, never to be perfectly reunited).

Then there is our human need of gods, or a god-like observer of all, a perfect witness to every moment, thought and intention that we have had. Without this, we perceive our very identities are in danger of moment-by-moment annihilation. Our past becomes a fragmentary road, its paving stones destroyed by the limitations of our own memory. Without my gods, who will remember me?

We desire a witness to this existence. Without that witness, we struggle to define meaning. But this need for a witness is more fundamental than the desire for meaning. Without a witness, there can be no meaning, except that which we make for ourselves. No wonder we are in anguish. The weight of being both actor and witness to the act, the inadequacy of memory, the lack of clarity inherent in our analysis of both motive and act–all conspire to increase our isolation.

I am a solipsist.

That is not true. I am not a solipsist in the metaphysical sense. But there is a sense that perhaps demands a new word. The word hasn’t been coined yet, but if I think of it, I will certainly post it. My solipsism is not metaphysical, as I said. Nor is it epistemological. There is sufficient evidence for the existence of other minds, and the notion that there aren’t other minds is not credible.

However, there is another problem. While I can be comfortable in my knowledge of the existence of other minds, I am also aware of a more immediate problem: the inadequacy of that knowledge. While I am aware that other intentional creatures exist, I am at a loss as to how to interact with them. Yes, language is a wonderful innovation. Facial expressions and body language make subtle, emotional communication possible. But all of this communication is false.

The inadequacy of human communication.

Even when we try to be honest, we fail. External facts can be communicated. The utterance, “two plus two equals four” is a true statement, but it communicates nothing about the sender. So, the problem is not that true utterances are not possible, but that a true statement about oneself is impossible. All of the “facts” that can be stated about oneself — the totality of facts about oneself — even if they could be cataloged and expressed, would not reveal the truth about a person. The public fact library, if there was such a thing, about an individual would reveal nothing about the being in itself.

Even truth and falsehood as categories break down. Can I speak about a true state of my mind? That it is in such and such a neurological state? That can be shown to be true, by an observer. It is a “state of affairs” as the philosophers say. But can a truth value be ascribed to my experience? “I am in pain.” “I have a pain in my foot.”

A Wittgensteinian will argue that if there is any inadequacy, it is a limitation of language and not a fundamental problem. But there are private experiences that are inexpressable. Does an infant exist before it acquires language? Is it conscious? Is it human?

I want to avoid a philosophical argument in any event since I am not competent to conduct it. But somewhere in this is a root of anxiety, perhaps better expressed by appeal to literature than philosophy.