There exists on Earth an elegant refutation of the possibility of any complete system of knowing. In spite of this, all over Earth, beings ponder the disparate parts of their world, finding, perhaps a few that seem to mesh. And when they see a pattern emerging, they extrapolate this fragment of order onto other unsolved pieces, wanting to close all the gaps in the nature of things. Like philosophers poring over the alembic that will distill the final elixir, or hermits who seek eternal motion and perpetual life, all feel sure that their quest is nearly done, that with only a little more work the solution will crystallise, that the great redemptive system will unfold.

Each seeker after complete truth has in common the simplest of starting-points: breath, desire, food, excrement, thought, language, pleasure, pain and death. But because they are unable to see their maze from above, their journeys are so disparate that few converge. Some look for synthesis in politics, in science, trade, religion, engagement or withdrawal. Yet as each clue yields to their probings, it points only at further puzzles.

You ask a question, and the answer is the walls of your labyrinth: the sun shines on your skin in the day; at night there are stars. Your lungs are filled, and emptied and filled again. There is the fragrance of steam from a bowl of rice and beans, and the urgency of the need to excrete. Everywhere there are beings in exchange with you. The pleasure and the pain of sex and desire course through you; you utter words and think thoughts; finally there is death.