It might make me seem more human at this point, which is to say more sympathetic, if I were to declare that I itched and blinked and nearly swooned with a feeling of unreality. Sorry. Not so. I confess to a ghastly lack in myself. Anything I see or hear or feel or taste or smell is real to me. I am so much a credulous plaything of my senses that nothing is unreal to me. This armor-plated credulity has been continent even in times when I was struck on the head or drunk or, in one freakish adventure that need not concern this accounting, even under the influence of cocaine.
The narrator in this excerpt reveals a deep connection to his senses, claiming that everything he perceives feels entirely real to him. Despite any situations that might lead to a feeling of unreality, he emphasizes that his experiences are genuine and vivid. This acknowledgment speaks to a profound vulnerability, as he admits to being completely at the mercy of his sensory experiences.
Moreover, he reflects on his own humanity, suggesting that...
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All the things you can talk about in anyone's work are the things that are least important.
Race of Cain, ascend to heaven, And cast God down upon the earth!
