The Parca and the Angel of Death, Gustave Moreau (1890)
“Symbolic thinking is not the exclusive privilege of the child, of the poet or of the unbalanced mind: it is consubstantial with human existence, it comes before language and discursive reasoning. The symbol reveals certain aspects of reality—the deepest aspects—which defy any other means of knowledge. Images, symbols and myths are not irresponsible creations of the psyche; they respond to a need and fulfill a function, that of bringing to light the most hidden modalities of being.”
-Mircea Eliade
“We have come from God, and inevitably the myths woven by us, though they contain error, will also reflect a splintered fragment of the true light, the eternal truth that is with God. Indeed only by myth-making, only by becoming ‘sub-creator’ and inventing stories, can Man aspire to the state of perfection that he knew before the Fall. Our myths may be misguided, but they steer however shakily towards the true harbour, while materialistic ‘progress’ leads only to a yawning abyss and the Iron Crown of the power of evil.”
-J.R.R. Tolkien
Volume 2
Chapter 3: Demons
Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them
For some time now, I’ve grown increasingly convinced that what we label as “mystical” cannot be neatly categorized as simply as true or false. It is not true in the literal sense that many believers might assume, yet it is equally misguided to dismiss it outright as mere superstition, as skeptics often do. Hypnosis, hallucinations, and lucid dreams—a state in which the dreamer is aware they are dreaming and may exert some control over their actions within the dream—were once regarded as paranormal phenomena, largely because the science of the time lacked the tools and frameworks to understand them. I see many aspects of religion through a similar lens, though with a deeper recognition of their profound philosophical and psychological dimensions. This perspective became clearer as I went deeper into religious ideas. Perhaps the most striking example is the concept of God—arguably the most widespread and significant religious construct—not as a magical, anthropomorphic creator, but as the personification and representation of an ideal. This interpretation extends naturally to other elements of mysticism. I believe many so-called mystical phenomena refer to real experiences or psychological states, though they are often misunderstood or misinterpreted.
This is represented in this movie rather well. In it, spirits, demons, and similar entities are not depicted as supernatural beings but instead as symbolic representations of deeper truths. While you cannot literally claim that a spirit possesses you and dictates your actions—since spirits in that sense do not exist—the behavior that people attribute to possession often emerges from forces beyond their ordinary sense of self. These forces arise from somewhere outside the ego yet remain universal and, in a sense, timeless. From this vantage point, such psychological states can be understood as “spirits.” Metaphorically, they can possess you, taking over your thoughts and actions. These states are not tied to any one person but can manifest in anyone, transcending individual identity. Of course, these “spirits” are not literal supernatural beings, but in the absence of scientific understanding, what other language could people have used to describe them? Even if scientifically inaccurate, such interpretations were—and in some cases still are—pragmatically meaningful.
Carl Jung offers a particularly fascinating perspective in this regard, as he crossed both worlds of science and mysticism. His father, a physician, imparted a scientific mindset, while his mother’s rich, mystical stories nurtured a deep curiosity about religion and spirituality. These influences shaped his work, guiding him to recognize cross-cultural patterns in myths and archetypes, eventually culminating in his theory of the collective unconscious.
How is it possible to inhabit these seemingly incompatible worlds of science and mysticism? Perhaps their incompatibility is more apparent than real, arising from a fundamental misunderstanding. These domains may, in fact, describe the same underlying phenomena, merely expressed in vastly different languages. The challenge lies in mastering both languages well enough to grasp the connections between them.
It’s remarkable how learning about archetypes can permanently alter your worldview. Once you grasp their significance, you begin to see them everywhere—in yourself, in others, and perhaps most prominently in fiction. I find it almost amusing that many of my psychology colleagues dismiss archetypes as unreal, relegating them to the realm of mysticism or religion. Because of this association, they often consider archetypes unscientific or even invalid. Yet, when you genuinely understand archetypes, their reality becomes undeniable. They may not be “scientific” in the same sense as serotonin, as their complexity resists simple, material categorization. While they are not as tangible as neurons, their existence is no less significant. Values, after all, are intangible, yet we classify and study them based on how they influence behavior. Archetypes operate similarly. The debate over their essence—and how that overlaps with religious or mystical interpretations—is understandable, but to dismiss them outright seems profoundly misguided to me.
A powerful example of this concept appears in the depiction of Obscurials in the movie. They represent a fictional manifestation of Jung’s concept of the shadow: young witches or wizards who suppress their magical abilities due to fear or societal rejection. This repression manifests as a destructive dark force called an Obscurus, which embodies their inner turmoil and suppressed power. Interestingly, this pathology arises exclusively through suppression, a hallmark of the archetypal shadow. While the idea may seem obvious to those familiar with it, its resonance lies in the fact that most people are not consciously aware of their shadow. It taps into something they feel deeply but struggle to articulate.
The shadow is an immensely potent force, but its danger lies in repression. When embraced and integrated, it becomes a valuable part of the personality. Repressed, however, it grows in the dark and can eventually overwhelm the ego. This understanding became personal for me as I reflected on a particular recurring fantasy from my childhood. I often daydreamed about avenging a loved one, such as my mother, by killing her imagined attacker. At first, I believed these thoughts stemmed from love and fear of losing her, but over time, I realized there was more to it. Yes, loved ones are vulnerable and can be harmed by accidents or impersonal events. But that wasn’t the focus of my imagination. Instead, my fantasies always involved someone deliberately killing my mother, and my retaliation was often excessively violent, driven by pure rage. Why did such vivid and visceral images arise? It took me years of introspection and learning to understand that these fantasies were my shadow’s only outlet for expression. I had internalized an image of myself as a good person, incapable of harm; to me, harmful acts were the domain of “evil” people, and I certainly wasn’t one of them. This rigid self-perception left no room for the darker, unacknowledged parts of my psyche, forcing my shadow to surface in such extreme and symbolic ways.
These fantasies gave me—more accurately, my shadow—a justification for violence: if it was in the name of justice, then it was acceptable. This rationale is manageable, provided you recognize it for what it is. Otherwise, it can lead you astray. Ultimately, I came to acknowledge my capacity for violence not just in the pursuit of justice, but as a general potential within me. I had simply disguised it as “good” violence, because my self-perception as a “good person” left no room for any other possibility. Recognizing these fantasies as more than trivial daydreams—seeing them instead as reflections of my potential for evil—was both terrifying and liberating. This acknowledgment gave me a measure of control: the ability to consciously choose restraint, to mitigate the risk of harm to others. Rejecting your dark side, by contrast, allows it to fester and grow, potentially leading it to overwhelm you, much like the Obscurials in the film. The challenge lies in understanding that it’s not merely about suppressing some “evil self” that exists as an external force to combat. Evil is an integral part of your being, rooted in your inherent capacity for power.
This is why the film depicts such power as magical. Power, by its nature, is morally neutral—it can be wielded for good or evil. The shadow cannot be rejected outright because it is inextricably linked to power itself, and some measure of power is necessary to navigate the world. Thus, the shadow either exists within you consciously, or it lurks in the subconscious. If repressed, it grows unchecked. Paradoxically, by becoming aware of your shadow, you bring its potential for evil into conscious existence. You hold power over the world—your choices have real consequences—and with that power comes the unavoidable potential for both good and evil.
In my conceptualization of cosmology, there are two fundamental agents: “you,” representing the ego, and “the world,” encompassing everything external to you. Together, these agents form the most basic image of being. However, once the ego becomes self-aware, you are no longer a mere cog in an ancient, deterministic chain reaction. Self-awareness introduces the capacity for choice, necessitating a third agent—something akin to the spirit of choice or the “logos.” At this point, you realize you can actively shape the world rather than passively observe it.
The world itself is inert, devoid of inherent meaning. To navigate it, we rely on values as lenses through which to interpret and engage with it. Some of these values are rooted in biology, while others are the product of millennia of cultural evolution. Every choice we make reflects these values to varying degrees, and at their core, they tend to boil down to a binary: something is either “good” or “bad” within a given system of evaluation. Real-life decisions, however, are far more complex, involving countless overlapping binaries that defy conscious comprehension. Much of this processing occurs subconsciously, with conscious articulation emerging only after the fact. Adding to this complexity is the fact that our values evolve over time, further complicating the process of decision-making.
Admittedly, this is a significant digression. The framework I developed originated from a “top-down” perspective, yet it functions equally well in reverse. Self-awareness leads to awareness of the world, which reveals your capacity for conscious choice, ultimately bringing to light the dichotomy of “good” versus “evil.” You cannot eliminate this dichotomy because it emerges naturally from the interplay of power and awareness. To erase power is to erase the capacity for both good and evil—and, with it, the very essence of what it means to exist as a conscious being. In the movie, this power is visualized as extraordinary magic, capable of splitting buildings and roads. When compared to humanity’s actual power, however, it’s not so different. While we may not levitate objects with our minds, we create medicines that save countless lives. At the same time, we wage wars and develop weapons capable of obliterating entire cities. Humanity wields immense power, though not in the direct, superhuman sense often depicted in fiction.
This raises a fundamental choice: you either acknowledge that you possess power—and with it, the capacity for evil—or you repress it, convincing yourself that you are inherently good while projecting evil as something that exists solely “out there.” Yet power is intrinsic to human nature. Ignoring it only keeps it unconscious, which is dangerous. Awareness functions much like compensating for a car that pulls to the right. If you’re aware of the tendency, you can correct for it. If you’re not, you’re far more likely to crash. Religious and mythical stories capture this dynamic with remarkable insight and clarity.
Can we definitively say that evil exists? In some ways, no; it has no tangible, objective form. Yet from a human perspective, it is as real as anything else. Personifying these forces as agents is a natural psychological inclination. Even in our age of scientific understanding, it remains practical to describe them metaphorically—as something akin to the “obscurus” within us. If such representations remain helpful today, how else could they have been described in times when science was virtually nonexistent? To me, this is the essence of religion: not that a literal God created the world, but that religion serves as a mythic, narrative portrayal of existence. It centers on the “magical” or “miraculous” phenomenon we call consciousness—understood as a self-aware, cognitive agent. This narrative approach is essential because the complexity of consciousness defies straightforward representation. Much like art, it predates our capacity for philosophical inquiry. A nuanced analysis of these mythic frameworks, combined with greater scientific understanding, is bound to yield profound insights into human nature.
This perspective also sheds light on the crucial importance of psychedelics. Their therapeutic potential for conditions like depression and PTSD is immense, but they hold even greater philosophical significance. As our scientific worldview has expanded, mysticism has increasingly been dismissed as mere superstition. Yet psychedelics, regardless of how rational or skeptical one might be, induce profoundly mystical experiences. They act as a stark reminder of a fundamental aspect of our being, one that we risk neglecting in our pursuit of purely rational frameworks.
These experiences invite scientific investigation, offering a unique opportunity to bridge what once seemed an insurmountable gap between mysticism and science. It is perplexing that some fail to grasp this importance. Psychedelics remain at the forefront of psychiatry due to their unparalleled therapeutic potential, but their power extends far beyond clinical applications. This power is too profound to remain suppressed indefinitely. As the stigma surrounding psychedelics continues to fade and research advances—hopefully in the coming decades—we may usher in a new era of human understanding. Such progress could lead not only to less suffering but also to more meaningful and enriched lives.
When I first became intrigued by religion, I saw it as something worth studying to gain insights into human nature. However, I dismissed the idea of actively practicing it. Its cultural significance was undeniable, but I viewed it as an archaic relic we had outgrown. Over time, I realized this perspective was untenable. Religion, particularly in its mythic form, conveys truths that we cannot yet articulate philosophically. In this sense, art becomes a subconscious embodiment of knowledge we struggle to express, and religion functions as a kind of “meta-art.” To discard it would risk stifling the development of new knowledge—especially moral knowledge, which lies beyond the reach of science.
Science is indispensable for accurately analyzing reality, yet it remains intrinsically tied to our values. Even the act of formulating a hypothesis involves human choice and creativity; the subjective element cannot be entirely eliminated. You might call this phenomenon “human nature” or a “human limitation.” For instance, you can conduct a double-blind study—an experimental procedure in which neither the research subjects nor the researchers know who is receiving the experimental treatment—on subconscious phenomena, like priming. Priming is a psychological phenomenon where exposure to one stimulus influences a response to a subsequent stimulus without conscious awareness. For example, in a study, participants primed with words associated with the stereotype of elderly people—such as “retired” or “gray”—were observed to walk more slowly afterward. This illustrates how subtle cues can shape behavior in ways individuals are not consciously aware of. This type of study can be used to construct a clear and objective understanding of reality. However, to do so, you must first believe that the subconscious exists or consider it relevant enough to study. Before Freud scientifically explored the dynamic subconscious, his ideas were influenced by philosophical speculation and literary works, such as Shakespeare’s plays. Art and myth often pave the way for science by providing a foundation of inchoate truths, waiting to be articulated more formally. You can’t harvest the fruit while disregarding the tree that bore it.
Even if science could eliminate subjectivity entirely, it would still face the insurmountable challenge of values—a domain science cannot resolve. Facts are inherently value-neutral; they can inform moral decisions only if you already possess moral axioms. Science itself does not provide these axioms. Many of our values are so deeply ingrained in cultural traditions that we regard them as self-evident. However, as the world evolves, those values and axioms must adapt. A static set of beliefs, no matter how functional in its time, is destined to falter eventually.
A curious example of subconscious knowledge arose as I became more adept at playing with my cat. During play, you hover just below the threshold of genuine aggression; occasionally, you cross the line, and the cat scratches or bites. Over time, I learned how to avoid injury almost entirely, but I cannot articulate exactly how. I can’t provide precise instructions for each micro-movement or subtle cue in my cat’s facial expressions. This is procedural, subconscious knowledge—deeply ingrained yet difficult to express. Another example is grammar. Despite having written this book, my understanding of formal grammar—regardless of the language—is limited. Yet, like children learning to speak, I can construct grammatically correct sentences easily. We abstract patterns subconsciously, sometimes articulating them later. But not all knowledge completes that journey and is fully expressed at a conscious level.
Experiments confirm that humans perceive patterns subconsciously. A classic study at the University of Iowa had participants draw from two card decks—one with favorable odds, the other with unfavorable—while wearing sweat detectors on their palms. By about 50 cards, participants exhibited sweaty palms when reaching for the unfavorable deck, indicating subconscious awareness of the pattern. However, they only became consciously aware of it around card 80. Malcolm Gladwell’s Blink describes many such phenomena. While I dislike the pseudoscientific misuse of the term “intuition,” the concept itself is real. It’s the “aha” moment in problem-solving that often arises spontaneously, a process central to creativity. This also explains why so many discoveries are linked to dreams. Sleep immerses us in the subconscious, relaxing the rigid constraints of conscious thought and enabling more divergent thinking. Psychedelics can produce similar effects by broadening perception and dissolving conventional boundaries, allowing subconscious knowledge to surface. Intuition, in many ways, is to the individual what religion is to society. Neither guarantees truth, but both evolve through pragmatic pressures, accumulating effectiveness over time. Intuition and religion should not be transformed into dogma, yet neither should they be dismissed outright. Both should be allowed to emerge naturally, then evaluated critically but respectfully.
Science, of course, plays a crucial role in refining our understanding of reality and tempering the absurd outcomes that sometimes arise from this “social art.” Yet, it’s all too easy to claim that we already possess all the moral knowledge we need. Such arrogance is ignorant and short-sighted. One day, new circumstances will demand entirely new moral structures. This is a recurring theme in myths: heroes must challenge outdated ideologies to confront emerging challenges. The advent of strong AI—artificial intelligence with intellectual capabilities functionally equal to those of a human across a wide range of tasks—may be one of those challenges. It has the potential to fundamentally reshape society, creating moral dilemmas that our current frameworks cannot address. This cultural shift may effectively divide history in two. Addressing such challenges requires emergent “artistic” or “religious” knowledge, which often precedes philosophical and political frameworks. Waiting for these new frameworks to fully materialize is risky; by then, it may already be too late. Severing the subconscious roots from which these frameworks arise deprives us of adaptability, leaving us vulnerable to the unforeseen.
I understand the atheist’s reluctance to engage with religion. There is no simple solution, but the answer lies in keeping religion—or any mythic framework—aligned with scientific realities. When religion conflicts with science, it must adapt. History shows that no dogma can withstand the pressure of genuine evidence. While this process is slow, it’s an inevitable evolution. Religion, after all, is deeply entwined with social cohesion and the foundations of civilization itself. As Don Cupitt insightfully observed: “Nobody in the West can be wholly non-Christian. You may call yourself non-Christian, but the dreams you dream are still Christian dreams.” Religion’s influence is inescapable, even for those who reject it outright. Yes, we see flaws in our culture and feel the urge to fix them. The temptation to tear down old structures and start anew is strong, but that impulse is precisely what mythic narratives warn against. Destroying something we don’t fully understand risks catastrophic consequences. Much of our cultural foundation remains unarticulated, and discarding it wholesale without a clear replacement is dangerous. Instead, we must carefully examine what we have, preserve what works, and improve upon it.
It gives me pause that everything I write lately seems to circle back to religion. This is particularly unsettling given the strong anti-religious bias I once held. Yet, the deeper I explore the subject, the more I recognize its fundamental role in human existence. When I first began to grasp the intricacies of religion, I still believed that humanity could transcend it—that while it expressed something profound, it had become obsolete. At the time, I was delving into philosophy and assumed it could fill the void left by religion. I was mistaken. Religion reaches deeper than philosophy.
When I use the term “religion,” I am not referring solely to churches or specific institutions. Rather, I mean religion as an organic, emergent framework that articulates propositions—often moral ones—within a mythic and historical context. I continue to use the term “religion,” but what I am describing differs so fundamentally from conventional associations with the word that I hesitate to use it at all.
I recall watching a debate in which Sam Harris engaged a priest who argued that all religions ultimately strive toward a deeper human truth. That encapsulates it perfectly. What I’m describing is rooted in something more primal than what we conventionally define as religion. It exists beneath art, thought, and dreams—a kind of preconscious mythological narration of human phenomenology. Admittedly, that phrase may be clumsy, but it’s the closest approximation I can offer.
For Plato, the arts were mimetic—mere representations of reality that distorted rather than revealed it—hindering genuine contact with “truth.” This perspective aligns with his theory of forms, which posits that the true essence of reality exists in perfect, abstract forms that we can only imperfectly perceive. No one can fully grasp these forms, a notion that echoes Kant’s idealism, the philosophical view that reality, or at least our knowledge of it, is fundamentally shaped by the mind. For Kant, pure knowledge of the “real” world is unattainable because human perception is inherently limited and filtered through subjective frameworks. While their philosophical systems differ, Plato and Kant share the view that an ultimate reality exists beyond our direct comprehension. However, I believe that, even within the limits of perception, we can construct progressively refined models of reality. In this process, art and religion play a crucial role. Though imperfect, they offer frameworks for exploring truths that propel us closer to understanding over time.
In the third millennium BCE, Mesopotamians recorded dreams on wax tablets, and ancient Egyptians compiled dream books cataloging common dreams and their interpretations. For millennia, humanity has sought to understand the subconscious. Then, we discovered a systematic method to explore it—psychedelics—and promptly outlawed them. The irony is striking. The unconscious can be thought of as a vast, disorganized realm of imagination—akin to cognition but more primal. It holds the potential to lead us to knowledge, though it doesn’t yield that knowledge readily. It might even predate language itself, as Stephen Asma suggests in The Evolution of Imagination. Imagination, after all, is creativity, and creativity fuels problem-solving—a hallmark of human capability. Darwin once remarked that “The imagination is one of the highest prerogatives of man.” Perhaps this is why we fear psychedelics: they offer a direct, unfiltered encounter with the subconscious, a vast and intricate realm that remains largely uncharted. Even Freud and Jung, who revolutionized our understanding of the unconscious, began their work barely a century ago. It underscores how recently we’ve started to probe this immense and mysterious part of ourselves.
People endlessly debate whether morality originates in religious texts. Richard Dawkins, for instance, often highlights problematic passages in the Bible to argue that we clearly don’t follow those guidelines. He’s right: we don’t derive our moral codes directly from scripture. But this critique misses a larger point. Societies have developed their own distinct moral systems over time. While globalization tends to obscure cultural differences, morality is far from uniform across the world. Yet, despite these variations, most moral systems share core similarities, and over time, they tend to progress. Religion did not create morality, but it did incorporate it into its narratives. By weaving morality into stories and declaring them to be “the word of God,” religion presented an objective and universal moral code. This code was, for a long time, unquestionable due to the immense authority of the divine. To defy the word of God was unthinkable; if God decreed it, it was inherently right.
Consider two children playing chess, taught by their father, an authority figure. They initially follow the rules “because Dad said so.” Later, when their father is absent, they realize the rules are entirely invented. They can choose to keep playing by those rules because it’s enjoyable, but there’s no cosmic obligation to do so. Here, the father is analogous to God, and the rules to morality. As Piaget observed, children initially perceive rules as unbreakable; only later do they understand rules as socially constructed. Nietzsche, too, recognized that morality isn’t fixed, a revelation that profoundly unsettled the modern world and underpins much of atheistic thought.
Without a “father” enforcing the rules, people might still follow them as part of a social contract. However, it becomes easier to rationalize breaking those rules if one believes the ends justify the means—a hallmark of utilitarianism. This opens the door to justifying almost anything, from killing to torture, if one is convinced it serves a greater good. People often assert that they don’t need religion to know killing is wrong, but this overlooks how deeply ingrained certain moral assumptions are in our culture. Nothing physically prevents someone from violating them except the law—and the law itself can be circumvented if one believes the justification is sufficient. Dostoevsky’s Crime and Punishment explores precisely this moral territory. I’m not suggesting we revert to a religion-centric society to enforce morality more effectively. Even if we wanted to, it wouldn’t be possible; science has invalidated many religious claims, and, as John Locke argued, you can’t compel genuine faith. However, the connection between religion and morality is undeniable, and the decline of religious metaphysics has significant implications for our ethical frameworks. I am merely pointing out the issue; I don’t have a clear answer and I doubt that there is one.
One aspect of psychedelics that consistently surprises me is how many people describe the experience as feeling “more real than real.” Dreams can be vivid, but they rarely surpass real life in their perceived authenticity. Yet, with sufficiently high psychedelic doses, that sensation is nearly universal. How can a “delusion” feel more real than ordinary reality? Some suggest you’re entering a new dimension, implying that normal existence is the illusion. Skeptics find this illogical without further evidence. Even so, the experience undeniably arises from the unconscious. At higher doses, it transcends neat categorizations, bringing that overpowering sense of hyper-reality. I suspect this is because you’re delving beyond what we typically consider the subconscious and encountering the very patterns of interpretation themselves. Ordinarily, we interpret input from the external world through our biologically and culturally shaped lens. Under the influence of intense psychedelics, you begin to experience the underlying structure of that lens, without the usual focus on external content. This feels more fundamental and thus “more real.” It’s like shifting from observing a car’s wheels rotate to studying the equations that govern kinetic energy. Of course, the mind isn’t an infinite repository of physics, so eventually, you arrive at the raw template of consciousness itself—how you interpret the unknown. This vantage point can be both disorienting and enlightening, fueling that overwhelming sense of reality.
While meditating on these concerns, I experienced what I can only describe as a vision—though the word “vision” feels inadequate to capture its intensity. It was closer to a divine epiphany or a moment of religious ecstasy. In this vision, I saw a cave just beneath the surface of the earth, with a man at its center, bound to the walls and ceiling by strings that resembled chains. The man could barely move, but with tremendous effort, he managed to grasp one of the strings and rip it apart. The act caused him unimaginable pain, shredding his skin. Yet, despite the agony, he reached for another string, then another, each time tearing through them more quickly. Eventually, he was free, drenched in blood and trembling. A faint aura began to radiate from him as he climbed out of the cave. For the first time, he beheld the outside world. A powerful light enveloped him—a radiant, divine brightness reminiscent of Renaissance depictions of God parting the clouds. It was an overwhelming scene of awe and wonder. By breaking free from those confining strings and escaping his cave of human limitations, the man entered a realm of goodness and truth.
This imagery obviously alludes to Plato’s cave, but my interpretation differs significantly. The man was not living in a false reality, as in Plato’s allegory. Instead, he painfully confronted and acknowledged his constraints, representing the intrinsic limitations of humanity. There is also a parallel to Nietzsche’s Übermensch, though Nietzsche emphasized the shackles of inherited values—especially those of Judeo-Christian morality. My vision felt broader, encompassing both social and biological constraints. Moreover, Nietzsche’s scenario implies the existence of hidden puppeteers pulling the strings, imposing those limitations. In my vision, there was no agenda behind the strings. They simply existed as an intrinsic aspect of being. They were not imposed by an external force, but a core feature of existence itself. What truly perplexes me is how the man was able to break free in the first place. If you are bound by your own limitations, how can you possibly develop the capacity to transcend them? This is the paradox: overcoming your constraints while being shaped entirely by them. It’s as though the act of breaking free requires something that is simultaneously a product of those constraints and yet somehow transcends them.