Just as a novelist creates a narrative, a person creates a sense of being. The self is simply our work of art, a fiction created by the brain in order to makes sense of its own destiny. In a world made of fragments, the self is our sole “theme, recurring, half remembered, half foreseen.” If it didn’t exist, then nothing would exist. We would be a brain full of characters, hopelessly searching for an author.
Jonah Lehrer, Proust Was a Neuroscientist
Just finished reading this, and I highly recommend it.

