As a child, I used to be chastised for the way I pronounced my name. True, I pronounced it the same way as almost everyone else, but this did not mean that what I pronounced was correct. Instead, my father said something different, though I could never exactly define the difference, and even as I struggled to repeat it aloud and make familiar to myself everything that was unfamiliar about it, it always seemed that he was just in a bad temper, and there was nothing left to cling onto. Now, with a start, I realise that he is dead and there is no one now who knows how to pronounce my name. I wear it; I lay some claim to it; but I don’t really possess it, since I don’t really understand it. And then I wonder: if even my own name is so hard for me to come by, how am I even to begin to search for truth in this haphazard world of ours?