"That day she put our heads together, Fate had her imagination about her, Your head so much concerned with outer, Mine with inner, weather."

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However intense my experience, I am conscious of the presence and criticism of a part of me, which, as it were, is not a part of me, but a spectator, sharing no experience, but taking note of it, and that is no more I than it is you. When the lay, it may be the tragedy, of life is over, the spectator goes his way. It was a kind of fiction, a work of the imagination only, so far as he was concerned.

— Henry David Thoreau