The This and the Universal: Revisiting Sensory Certainty and Meaning

Through the interplay of the immediate and the universal, sensory certainty reveals itself as a dynamic process of becoming, where meaning is not fixed but continuously transformed.

Table of Contents

Abstract:

This work delves into the nature of sensory certainty, exploring how the seemingly simple and immediate perception of objects is inherently entangled with the universal. It begins by addressing the limitations of sensory certainty, which, at first glance, appears to present an object in its pure, immediate form. However, through a deeper examination, it becomes evident that what we perceive as immediate knowledge is not a static truth, but a movement—a process of becoming. The object we perceive is not merely what it seems but is also a universal, an abstraction that transcends the specific instance before us.

The text investigates the process through which sensory certainty reveals its true nature, highlighting the tension between the particular and the universal. As consciousness confronts the “This” in its immediate form, it is compelled to recognize the underlying dialectic—the transformation of the object from a fixed, individual thing into a dynamic and relational phenomenon. This process is not merely one of negation but involves the unfolding of a deeper truth, where the “This” is revealed as an interrelated unity of many “Thises,” and the “Here” as a multiplicity of moments.

This analysis challenges the traditional conception of sensory certainty as a straightforward representation of reality. Instead, it proposes that what we know as sensory certainty is a complex, ongoing process in which meaning is not fixed but continually reshaped. Through this journey, the object ceases to be a simple, immediate thing and becomes part of the broader fabric of knowledge and experience, thus revealing the true nature of certainty and meaning as dynamic, interconnected, and universal.

The knowledge that initially presents itself to us, or the knowledge that is first in our experience, is necessarily immediate. It is the knowledge of the immediate—knowledge that pertains to what simply is, before any conceptual elaboration or reflective transformation has occurred. In this phase, our engagement with this knowledge must also remain immediate and receptive. We must approach it without attempting to alter or distort it, allowing it to present itself in its raw, unmediated form. The challenge here lies in refraining from prematurely transforming this direct apprehension into something more complex, such as comprehension or interpretation. Instead, we must resist the urge to infuse the knowledge with concepts or assumptions that belong to a later stage of understanding, accepting it purely as it is in its initial form.

The concrete content of sensory certainty initially presents itself as the most immediate and tangible form of knowledge, offering an impression of boundless richness. This form of knowledge appears to be the fullest, as it embraces the entirety of the object in its most direct and unmediated state. Whether we extend our awareness outward into the vast expanse of space and time, where this wealth of sensory experience unfolds, or whether we focus on a fragment of this abundance, dividing it further to explore its intricate details, there seems to be no end to its expanse. This infinite capacity for division, for uncovering layer upon layer, further contributes to the illusion that sensory certainty knows everything in its immediate fullness. It appears to encompass the entirety of the object, leaving nothing out. In this sense, sensory certainty seems to offer the most truthful form of knowledge, for it does not rely on mediation or abstraction but instead presents the object in its complete, unaltered form, as it is directly perceived.

However, upon closer examination, this seemingly rich certainty reveals itself as the most abstract and impoverished form of truth. The knowledge it offers is limited, for it merely affirms that something is—nothing more, nothing less. The truth that sensory certainty provides does not delve into the essence of the object or the subject; it only acknowledges the existence of the thing in its simplest, most immediate form. In this realm of certainty, consciousness is reduced to a pure, unqualified “I,” a mere point of awareness devoid of any deeper relationship to the object. Similarly, the object itself is reduced to nothing more than a pure “this,” an isolated entity without depth or meaningful connection to the subject. This form of knowledge, while certain in its immediacy, lacks the richness of understanding that comes with deeper reflection and conceptual engagement. It fails to uncover the dynamic interplay between subject and object, reducing both to mere presence, without grasping the true nature of either.

In this form of certainty, the “I”—reduced to its simplest, purest state—is certain of the object not because it develops through a process of conscious reflection, nor because it engages in a series of thoughts or actions that mediate its knowledge. The certainty it possesses is not born from a deepening awareness of the object’s complex qualities, nor from an understanding of the object’s relations to other things in the world. These aspects are irrelevant to the truth of sensory certainty. In this immediate certainty, both the “I” and the object exist as undifferentiated entities, unburdened by the weight of multiple meanings or interpretations. The “I” does not emerge from a web of thoughts or representational acts, and the object does not manifest as a thing full of intricate properties or connections. Instead, the object simply is, and the “I” is certain of it solely because it exists in this most immediate and unmediated form. This certainty rests in the sheer fact of existence, without the need for further elaboration or understanding.

For sensory knowing, this pure being—this unmediated immediacy—constitutes both its essence and its truth. In this form of knowing, there is no need for further complexity or differentiation. The certainty it provides is not built upon reflection or analysis; it is a direct and immediate relation, free from any additional layers of meaning. Consciousness, in this instance, is reduced to its most fundamental state: an “I” that is stripped of all complexity and abstraction, existing as nothing more than a pure, unqualified “this.” In the same way, the object of this consciousness is not a thing endowed with a multiplicity of qualities or relations; it is merely a pure “this,” a particular entity in its simplest, most immediate form. Both the “I” and the object remain undivided, unmediated, and solely defined by their immediate existence. In this realm of sensory certainty, the focus is not on the depth or complexity of the object but rather on the sheer fact of its being and the immediate relation between the subject and the object.

In the pure being that forms the essence of this certainty, and which it holds up as its truth, there is, upon closer examination, much more at play than initially meets the eye. Sensory certainty, in its most concrete form, is not simply this pure immediacy—rather, it is a particular instance or manifestation of it. While the immediate knowledge of the object may seem straightforward, it is, in reality, a site of countless distinctions that, when observed, reveal a deeper structure. Among these numerous differences, the most fundamental and pivotal distinction is the emergence of two “thises”: one as the “I,” the subject, and the other as the object. These two entities, though grounded in the same pure immediacy, are not the same—they are inherently different moments within the same relation. The “I” is the subject, the knowing self, and the object is the known, the thing that exists outside of and in relation to this subject. This duality—the “this” of the subject and the “this” of the object—represents the core of sensory certainty and its essential structure, pointing toward a deeper dynamic within the immediacy of experience.

Upon reflecting on this distinction, it becomes clear that neither the subject (“I”) nor the object exists purely and immediately within sensory certainty. Both are, in fact, mediated by one another. The certainty that I, as the subject, possess is not self-sustained; it is acquired through the object, which I know and apprehend. The object, in turn, does not exist independently and in isolation within the realm of certainty. Rather, it exists for me, through my perception and engagement with it, mediated by the “I” that holds it in awareness. Therefore, the relationship between subject and object is not a direct, unmediated one; both are reliant on one another in the process of cognition. The subject’s certainty cannot be divorced from the object that it perceives, and the object’s existence cannot be understood apart from the subject that apprehends it. This mutual mediation reveals that what we consider to be immediate knowledge is, in fact, a complex interplay between the two, each shaping the other within the realm of certainty.

This distinction between essence and example, between immediacy and mediation, is not an artificial imposition on our part, but rather something intrinsic to the very nature of sensory certainty. It is not a conceptual determination we apply to the experience; rather, it is something we uncover within the experience itself. Sensory certainty, in its immediate presentation, reveals this dual structure—both the direct immediacy of the object as it appears to us, and the mediation through which the object is known and understood. To truly grasp this distinction, we must attend to how it presents itself within the certainty itself, not through any preconceived notion or conceptual lens we bring to it. The moment we step beyond mere perception and begin to reflect, we introduce a conceptual framework that alters how we relate to this certainty, but we must remain mindful of the fact that the essence of this distinction already exists within the immediate experience, waiting to be acknowledged and understood in its own terms.

Within sensory certainty, two distinct aspects emerge: one is posited as the simple, immediately existing element, the essence itself—the object. This is the concrete, essential presence that stands independent and self-sustaining. The other aspect, however, is posited as unessential and mediated—its existence is contingent upon the other. This aspect is the “I,” the knowing subject, whose awareness of the object is not inherent but reliant on the existence of the object itself. The subject’s knowledge is not self-contained; it only exists in relation to the object and could just as easily be absent if the object were not there to be known. In this way, the subject’s existence is conditional and dependent on the object. The object, in contrast, is true and essential, existing independently of the subject’s knowledge. Whether it is known or not, the object remains; it is indifferent to the presence or absence of consciousness. The object exists in its own right, whereas the subject’s knowing is contingent upon the object’s existence and ceases to exist if the object is no longer present.

The object, therefore, must be thoroughly examined to determine whether it truly exists within the realm of sensory certainty as the essence it is claimed to be. We must inquire whether the concept of the object—the essence it purports to embody—aligns with its actual presence in sensory certainty. Does the object, in its immediate and concrete manifestation, truly reflect the concept attributed to it, or is it merely an appearance, a fleeting semblance? This examination requires us to scrutinize the nature of the object as it presents itself in experience and assess whether its essence, as conceived, is faithfully mirrored in the way it exists within our sensory perception. In doing so, we seek to reconcile the idea of the object with its actuality, uncovering whether the object holds its truth within itself or whether it remains bound to the limitations of immediate perception, devoid of the deeper essence we might project onto it.

To this end, our task is not to engage in reflection or speculation about what the object might be in its ultimate or absolute truth. Instead, we must observe it purely and directly as it is presented within sensory certainty, without imposing external assumptions or preconceived notions. The object, in this context, is not to be interpreted through layers of conceptualization or speculative thought, but rather regarded in its immediate and raw form, as it appears to consciousness. This approach requires a suspension of any desire to go beyond the immediate experience and a commitment to understanding the object within the limits of sensory perception alone. By doing so, we allow the object to reveal itself in its own terms, without the interference of theorizing about its deeper, perhaps hidden nature. Our focus must remain squarely on what is present in the moment, as it is given in sensory certainty.

Sensory certainty itself must then be questioned: What is this “This”? To fully explore its nature, we must consider it in its dual form of existence—as both the Now and the Here. This duality offers a direct path into the dialectical movement that underlies sensory certainty, allowing us to examine how these two moments—time (Now) and space (Here)—are not separate but inherently connected in the perception of the object. The “Now” represents the immediacy of the object in the present, capturing its fleeting moment of existence, while the “Here” grounds the object in its spatial location, anchoring it to a specific place. Together, these aspects embody the immediate experience of sensory certainty, where the object is perceived not as an abstract concept but as something directly encountered in the present time and space. By analyzing this dialectical union of Now and Here, we uncover the inherent tension between the immediate existence of the object and the way consciousness relates to it, making the dialectic both clear and accessible through the very form of sensory certainty itself.

In response to the question, What is the Now? one might, for instance, answer: The Now is the night. To assess the truth of this sensory certainty, we need only engage in a simple experiment. We write down this truth—”The Now is the night”—and by doing so, we preserve it in a form that appears as immutable as the truth itself. A truth, once articulated, does not lose its validity simply by being written down or recorded; it retains its essence and stands firm, unaffected by the medium in which it is captured. Writing it down merely freezes the moment, capturing it as it is, and preserving its validity in its immediate form. This experiment is not an abstract exercise but a direct engagement with sensory certainty—an act of crystallizing the present moment, affirming that the truth of the Now, as it appears in our perception, remains intact in its expression, even as the object itself continues to evolve. In this way, the object, once perceived, is no longer fleeting but retained in its recorded form, solidifying the truth of the sensory experience.

However, when we later revisit the recorded truth—perhaps at midday, hours after the initial writing—we are confronted with a new realization: the truth has become stale. What was once true in the immediate moment of the Now has, in this later instance, lost its relevance. The night, as the Now, was true only in that fleeting moment when it was written down, but that truth no longer holds in the same way. The shift in time—from the night to midday—reveals that the immediacy of the moment has passed, and with it, the truth we once affirmed no longer applies. The Now, which seemed so undeniably present in the original experience, has already been replaced by a new moment. This demonstrates the fundamental fluidity of sensory certainty, where truth is bound to the immediate and is thus inherently transient. What was true then—the sensory certainty of the night—has dissolved into the past, and we are left with the awareness that the truth of the Now is always tied to the moment, incapable of being fully captured or preserved in a static form.

The Now, which we identified as the night, is preserved in the act of recording it—it is treated as something that truly exists, as something real and present. However, this preservation soon reveals a deeper truth: the Now, as night, is not what it initially appeared to be. Though the Now itself persists, it no longer retains its original identity as night. Time has moved on, and the immediate truth of the night has given way to the actuality of the day. The Now exists, yes, but in its persistence, it is no longer the night; it has already been transformed by the progression of time. In this way, the Now persists not as the day itself, but as something that is not the day—something that exists in opposition to it. The night has dissolved, and the Now, though present, is a negative existence, not what it once was, not what it seemed to be. It is no longer the night, nor is it yet the full actuality of day; it is the transitional moment, the fleeting passage, a negative that exists between the two, affirming its being by its negation of what it once was.

This persistent Now, therefore, is not something immediate in the sense we might have initially assumed. Rather, it is something mediated, shaped by its relationship to other temporal moments. Its very determination—its quality of endurance and self-preservation—emerges through the negation of what it is not. It is neither the day nor the night, yet it exists as a result of their contrasting presence. By its negation of these opposites, the Now achieves its form as something that endures. Yet, despite this mediation, the Now retains its simplicity. It remains a pure, undifferentiated “Now,” unaffected by the temporal context that surrounds it. Just as it is neither the night nor the day, it simultaneously contains both in its transient, unchanging state. It remains indifferent to the fluctuations of time, unaffected by what it is not. The Now exists as a moment suspended between opposites, transcending their distinctions, a singular point in the flow of time that is neither defined by nor limited to what came before or after.

This simplicity, which exists through negation—neither this nor that, a not-this, and equally indifferent to being this or that—becomes a universal. In its pure form, the universal transcends the particularities of what it negates, existing not as something defined by the opposition of its components but rather as a unifying, undifferentiated essence. The universal, in this sense, is not merely an abstraction or a theoretical concept, but the very core of sensory certainty itself. It represents the underlying unity that holds together the multiplicity of moments, such as the Now, that emerge within sensory experience. The universal is the essence that grounds all perception, allowing consciousness to recognize what it encounters not merely as isolated, transient moments, but as part of a broader, interconnected reality. In this way, the universal serves as the foundation for all further understanding, the principle through which distinctions in sensory certainty can be made intelligible.

When we speak of the universal as “This” or “It is,” we express something beyond the immediate, concrete object that appears in our sensory certainty. By saying “This,” we refer not to any particular thing but to the universal quality of “thisness” itself, a concept that transcends any specific instance. Similarly, when we say “It is,” we are invoking the concept of being itself—being in general—rather than referring to any particular being. In doing so, we do not intend to represent the universal directly through a mental image or sensory perception, yet we nevertheless make a claim about it. In essence, our speech does not capture the full nature of the universal as it exists in sensory certainty, but it is through this very expression that we point toward it. We convey the universal, not by imagining it in its entirety, but by acknowledging its presence within the structure of what we say. The universal, thus, emerges as something that we can approach conceptually, even if our sensory experience of it remains partial and mediated through thought.

Language, in its very nature, points beyond the immediate object of sensory certainty. While we may attempt to articulate the specific being or object we perceive, what language conveys is always the universal truth that underlies these particular instances. In attempting to express a sensory being, we inevitably introduce the concept of the universal—the “This” or “It is”—which cannot be fully contained within the limits of our immediate, sensory experience. This inherent gap between intention and expression demonstrates that language, by virtue of its abstraction, continually refutes the precise meaning we seek to convey. It is in this way that language cannot capture the full essence of sensory being as we experience it; instead, it always conveys the universal, the abstract truth that transcends the specific and the immediate. Thus, the very tool we rely on to communicate our thoughts betrays the limitations of our sensory certainty, constantly drawing us toward the universal while obscuring the particular. The truth of sensory being, then, remains elusive, always mediated and never fully grasped in its immediacy through language.

The same issue applies to the Here as to the Now. Initially, the statement “Here is the tree” presents a sensory certainty that appears as true in that moment. However, as soon as the perspective shifts, the very truth of the Here dissolves, transforming into its opposite. The tree that once occupied the Here is no longer present in that space; instead, it is replaced by a house. This demonstrates the fleeting, transient nature of sensory certainty. The Here, in its immediacy, cannot hold onto its content—it is constantly subject to change, as the object associated with it shifts with the slightest alteration in perception. Just as the Now cannot retain its claim to being night, the Here cannot retain its claim to being the tree. The Here, like the Now, is not a stable, enduring truth but rather a dynamic moment that is immediately negated by its change. Thus, sensory certainty, whether in the form of the Now or the Here, reveals itself as inherently unstable, shifting as soon as its moment of perception passes, unable to hold onto any one truth for long.

Indeed, the Here itself persists as the backdrop to all the changing objects, unaffected by whether it is associated with a tree, a house, or anything else. In its essence, the Here is not tied to any specific content; it merely serves as the space in which things can appear. Its nature is not defined by what it holds but by its very capacity to hold things, indifferent to their specific form. This reveals the Here as a mediated simplicity, a universal concept that transcends any particular manifestation.

Much like the Now, which was revealed to be a universal negation of day and night, the Here is also a universal, a space that is not any one thing but is always, simply, the space for things. It is through the changes in content—whether the object is a tree, a house, or something else—that the Here is revealed in its true form. The Here is thus not a fixed, particular truth but a universal, a simplicity that remains constant regardless of what fills it. This universal essence of the Here demonstrates that the sensory certainty we initially encounter is always mediated by the concept of the universal, which allows for the transient nature of the objects it holds.

In this way, sensory certainty reveals that its essence is not a simple, immediate being, but a being that is inherently abstract. This being is not merely what appears in front of us, but a being that arises through the process of negation and mediation. It is a being that is no longer confined to the direct, particularity of the object but is understood as a universal, a being that is shaped by its own determination to be abstract.

Therefore, the truth of sensory certainty is not a mere affirmation of what is, but a recognition that this “being” is something more—something mediated, something that arises from the relationship between subject and object, between knowledge and the known. It is being, but with the necessary qualification that it is not a mere immediacy, not a direct encounter with the world as it appears. Rather, it is being that is self-conscious, being that has transcended its immediate form and become reflective, conceptual.

In this light, the truth of sensory certainty is revealed to be a universal essence, an abstraction that mediates the particularity of the object through the activity of thought. What was initially perceived as an immediate, unquestioned being is now understood as a concept, a moment in the unfolding process of consciousness, where the immediate becomes mediated and the universal emerges from the particular.

Thus, our opinion—that the true essence of sensory certainty is not the universal—remains opposed only to this empty or indifferent Now and Here. We mistake the immediacy of sensory certainty, the pure “this” of the present moment, as the truth itself. However, in doing so, we overlook the deeper truth that lies in the universal, the abstraction that transcends the particular instance of Now and Here. The essence of sensory certainty, when properly understood, is not in the isolated, fleeting present, but in the universal that is revealed through negation and mediation, a truth that is not tied to a singular moment or a fixed location but to the continuous, evolving process of thought.

This opposition highlights the tension between immediate sensory experience and the deeper, more abstract understanding that philosophy seeks to cultivate. Sensory certainty offers us a world of particularities—things that exist in the moment, here and now—but this immediacy, while essential for experience, is not the ultimate truth. The truth is found not in the raw data of sensation but in the universal principles that emerge through reflection and conceptualization. Thus, we are called not merely to accept the fleeting appearances of the sensory world, but to recognize the universal that underpins and transcends them, transforming our immediate knowledge into true understanding.

If we compare the relationship between knowledge and the object as it first appeared with the relationship they assume in this result, we find that it has been reversed. Initially, the object, which was supposed to be the essential element of sensory certainty, appeared as the foundational truth, with knowledge existing as a mere reflection or passive receptivity of that object. In this state, the object was deemed the true and stable element, and knowledge was considered secondary—nothing more than a vehicle to apprehend this external, independent reality. However, as we continue to engage with the process of reflection and examination, we observe that the object, once held as essential, now becomes the inessential aspect of sensory certainty.

The universal, into which the object has transformed, is no longer the essential object it was once believed to be. Instead, the essence of sensory certainty, which initially resided in the object’s immediacy, is now found in its opposite: knowledge itself. Knowledge, once deemed inessential, has now become the essential element of certainty. This reversal signifies a profound shift in our understanding: rather than the object being the primary source of truth, it is now through the active role of knowledge that the essence of truth is revealed. The object, in its static and immediate form, no longer serves as the ultimate arbiter of reality; instead, knowledge, through its process of mediation and reflection, has become the true essence of sensory certainty.

The truth of sensory certainty is now located in the object as my object, or more precisely, in the act of meaning—the idea that the object is because I know it. Sensory certainty, which initially presented itself as a simple, independent reality, has now been driven out of the object itself. However, this driving out does not result in the complete dissolution of sensory certainty; instead, it has been displaced, pushed back into the I—the subject. What was once perceived as an external, objective reality is now understood as something intimately tied to the knowing subject. The object, though still appearing as a meaningful presence, is now contingent upon the act of knowledge that brings it into being for the subject.

This transformation does not yet abolish sensory certainty. The object is still present, but its truth is no longer found in its pure, immediate existence; instead, it resides in the knowing subject. This shift marks a critical point in the development of consciousness. The object is no longer autonomous or independent, and its truth becomes dependent on the act of knowing. The question now arises: what does this shift reveal about the nature of sensory certainty itself? How does experience, through the further development of consciousness, address this new reality? The journey toward this understanding will unfold as experience continues to move beyond the confines of immediate sensory certainty, revealing the deeper structures of truth.

The strength of sensory certainty now resides in the I, in the immediacy of my seeing, hearing, and so forth. It is my active perception that anchors the Now and Here in their transient forms, preventing them from slipping away into emptiness. The Now becomes day because I perceive it as such; the Here is a tree because I designate it as such. My consciousness, through its immediacy, holds the object in its awareness, preserving the experience of presence and continuity. This holding of the object within the self is the key to sensory certainty’s persistence. It is not the object that retains its own stability, but rather the subject that, through its act of knowing, ensures that the object remains meaningful and present in the moment of perception.

In this way, the I becomes the anchor of certainty. The sensory world, which might otherwise be fleeting and elusive, is grounded in my immediate awareness of it. The tree is not just an object existing independently, but it is the tree as I perceive it. The Now is not an abstract moment, but the Now as I experience it, a living, present reality that only exists in relation to my consciousness. Through this subjective activity, the world becomes fixed, and the apparent instability of sensory experience is mitigated. However, this certainty still operates within a limited framework—one that hinges on the immediate, unmediated experience of the individual subject. This momentary certainty, as anchored in the subject, now requires further investigation to determine the true nature of the object it perceives.

This dialectic reveals the inherent instability within sensory certainty itself. Although each I asserts its own perception—the tree as the Here for one, the house as the Here for the other—both truths are equally grounded in the immediacy of sensory experience, the certainty of seeing and knowing. Each individual’s conviction is unshakable in their own perception, but these truths are not universal; they are relative to the individual experiencing them. The conflict arises when one truth is displaced by the other, showing that the certainty of one subject does not necessarily correlate with the certainty of another. In this dynamic, the object of sensory certainty, which seemed so firm and stable when held by the subject, is revealed to be contingent upon the individual’s perception.

Thus, the sensory certainty that seemed to give immediate and indisputable truth about the object becomes problematic. The tree, in its original assertion as the Here, is no longer universally valid when the assertion of the house takes its place. The opposition between these two truths exposes the limitations of sensory certainty, for the object’s existence, as it is perceived, is not fixed but varies depending on the perceiver. The immediacy of the I’s perception, once thought to be the grounding of objective truth, is shown to be insufficient in establishing a universally valid reality. Therefore, what seemed like an absolute certainty now appears as a fleeting and relative moment in the flow of consciousness.

The I, as universal, transcends the particular object it perceives. It is not defined by the specific act of seeing the tree or the house, but by the simple, undifferentiated act of seeing itself. This seeing is not attached to any particular object; it is a universal seeing that remains the same regardless of what is perceived. The I is therefore not bound to any particular object, nor is it defined by its relation to specific things in the world. It is the constant, unchanging aspect of consciousness that persists through the changing content of sensory experience.

This universality of the I mirrors the universality of the Now, the Here, and the This, which are not tied to specific instances of time, place, or object. The Now is not confined to a single moment but encompasses the general concept of time; the Here is not limited to one specific location but represents the concept of space. Similarly, the I is not limited to a specific act of perception but represents the universal aspect of consciousness that is always present, irrespective of the content it perceives. This universal I, in its simplicity and indifference to the particulars of its experience, constitutes the true essence of consciousness. It is through this universal I that sensory certainty, despite its particularity, can be recognized as part of a larger, more universal framework.

In attempting to specify a particular I, we find ourselves unable to fully articulate it without invoking the universal I. Just as the terms “Here,” “Now,” or “particular” refer not to one singular instance but to all instances of their kind, so too does the “I” refer not merely to the individual I but to the universal concept of I. In saying “I,” the very nature of language pushes us beyond the particularity of this one individual self, collapsing it into a broader, more general notion of selfhood. Thus, even when we speak of “this particular I,” we are simultaneously expressing the universality of the I.

This contradiction highlights the tension between the individual and the universal aspects of consciousness. While we may intend to refer to a specific, concrete instance of the I, the very nature of language and thought forces us to recognize the universal aspect that underlies this individuality. The I, as an individual, is inseparable from the concept of I, and in expressing it, we inadvertently speak to the totality of all possible selves. This tension between the particular and the universal in our understanding of the I reflects the dialectical movement that consciousness undergoes as it seeks to grasp itself fully. In this way, the I is both individual and universal, particular and general, simultaneously.

If science is confronted with the demand to deduce, construct, or identify a particular “this thing” or “this person” a priori—whatever form this challenge may take—it is only reasonable to ask the challenger to clarify which “this thing” or which “I” they are referring to. However, this specification proves to be impossible. The very nature of the “this” or the “I” is inherently universal, not confined to any particular instance. When we speak of “this thing” or “this I,” we are simultaneously invoking every instance of “this” or “I,” for these terms point beyond the individual case to a broader, universal concept. Thus, the demand to isolate and define a singular, concrete instance outside of this universality is logically unfeasible.

In other words, the challenge to science to identify a specific object or person a priori fails precisely because such an object or person is never fully separate from the broader, universal context in which they exist. The “this” or “I” cannot be reduced to a single, isolated entity because it always carries with it the implicit reference to the entirety of its kind. The nature of science, grounded in universal principles, does not and cannot be bound by arbitrary particularities. This is not a limitation of science, but rather a reflection of the interconnectedness and universality that science seeks to understand and express. The question of “this” is always already tied to the greater whole, and thus, any demand for an isolated specification is inherently flawed.

Sensory certainty, upon deeper reflection, uncovers that its essence cannot be located either in the object or in the “I” alone. Immediacy, in its true form, is not confined to the immediacy of either the object or the “I.” In both instances, what we initially intend—the particular Now, Here, or I—proves to be inessential. Both the object and the “I” reveal themselves as universals, abstract and overarching, where the specific, individual Now, Here, and I that we attempt to pinpoint do not endure or exist as they initially seemed. The “Now” that seemed to be the moment of certainty slips away, as does the “Here” and the “I”—all reveal themselves as part of a broader, universal realm, their immediacy dissolving into something more abstract and far-reaching.

In essence, sensory certainty reveals its own limitations in this process, showing that its object is not just the concrete thing before us but also an expression of universal concepts that transcend immediate experience. Similarly, the “I,” once thought to be a singular, particular subject, now shows itself to be part of a larger, universal notion of selfhood. The truth of sensory certainty lies not in the fixed, immediate presence of these particulars, but in their movement and transformation into something universal, something that holds them together but does not leave them as isolated instances of perception. Thus, both the object and the “I” become part of a larger dialectical movement, no longer merely immediate or fixed, but shaped by the process of becoming and knowing itself.

This realization brings us to a deeper understanding of sensory certainty, where the entirety of sensory certainty itself must be considered as its essence. Previously, we treated individual moments—first the object, then the I—as the defining elements of sensory certainty. However, upon further reflection, we see that it is not any single moment but the whole of sensory certainty that holds its essence. In this entirety, all the oppositions that arose earlier—such as the distinction between the object and the I—are excluded. The opposition between subject and object, being and knowing, is no longer valid in the context of the whole. Instead, what we encounter is the pure immediacy of sensory certainty, where these distinctions dissolve into the unity of the experience itself.

In this way, sensory certainty reveals itself not as a fragmented, dualistic experience but as a holistic one, where both the object and the I, in their opposition, are part of a larger, unified whole. This totality transcends the individual determinations we previously imposed on it. What seemed like independent and opposing moments now form a complete, indivisible structure. The immediacy that was initially attributed to the object or the I is now understood to be a characteristic of the entire experience, where the boundaries between the subject and object blur, giving way to a more complex understanding of truth. In this realization, sensory certainty reaches its fullness, no longer divided or incomplete, but complete in its totality.

This pure immediacy, now realized in its totality, no longer concerns itself with the transient variations of the Here or the Now. It is no longer concerned with the object changing from a tree to a house, or with the Now shifting from day to night. Neither does it focus on the perspective of another I, whose object may differ from that of the first. Instead, the truth of this immediacy remains self-consistent, a unified relation that transcends the fluctuating distinctions of subject and object. In this purified form, the separation between the essential and inessential—the difference between the I and the object—ceases to apply. It is an all-encompassing unity, in which no further distinctions can enter. The immediacy of this truth is absolute, unaltered by the specificities of time, space, or individual perspective. It is the essence of truth itself, where all contradictions dissolve into a harmonious totality.

In this moment of pure intuition, I assert the Now as day without engaging in any further reflections or comparisons. The Here remains a tree, fixed in my perception, and I do not entertain the possibility of it becoming anything else, nor do I consider how another I might perceive it differently. There is no thought of change or multiplicity within this relation—only a single, immediate truth. I do not move beyond the pure assertion of the Now as day or the Here as a tree. There is no reference to the passing of time or the varying perspectives of others; I am immersed solely in this singular, unmediated relation. In this state, I am not concerned with the object’s potential transformations or the shifting of perspectives. The truth remains rooted in the immediacy of my experience, without the intrusion of comparison or contradiction. It is pure, direct, and unaltered by externalities, existing solely in its own unchanging presence.

In this stage of certainty, we find that the immediate truth of the Now—asserted as day, for instance—becomes something intimately connected to the specific I making that assertion. This truth is no longer a universal claim but is tied to the particularity of the I in its given moment, confined to a specific Now or Here. It cannot be generalized or abstracted; it must be directly shown to us within the context of this particular I’s experience.

The certainty of the Now, as it is perceived by this particular I, cannot be separated from the subjectivity that grounds it. To assert the Now as day or the Here as a tree is to acknowledge the immediacy of that experience, but it is equally to recognize the limits of that experience, which is bound to a particular instance of time, space, and perspective. The immediacy of this certainty, therefore, is not a timeless or objective truth but a fleeting moment tied to the self-consciousness of the I asserting it. Thus, to engage with this certainty, we must not only observe the Now as it is declared but also confront the very limitations of this particular knowledge, knowing that it is, in essence, contingent upon the self that perceives it.

This necessity to return to the specific moment in time or space, to re-enter the experience of the I that asserts the certainty, underscores the essential nature of immediacy in sensory certainty. If we were to observe this truth at a later time or from a different perspective, we would inevitably distance ourselves from the immediate experience, thus stripping it of its significance. The immediacy of the truth—whether it is the assertion that the Now is day, or the Here is a tree—requires direct participation.

To fully grasp the truth of the moment, we must become that particular I, immersed in the sensory certainty of the Now. This immersion does not merely involve intellectual understanding but demands a kind of experiential engagement where the distinction between subject and object, observer and observed, collapses into the unity of experience. Only by becoming the subject of that specific certainty can we re-establish the truth of its immediacy, for the certainty exists solely within the context of that particular, unmediated moment of knowledge. Thus, the very act of observing becomes a process of re-entering the experience, not from an external, detached viewpoint but from within the lived immediacy that constitutes its truth.

When we attempt to examine the immediate, which is shown to us, we must recognize that it is not a simple or static presentation. The immediate is not merely the object as it appears at first glance, nor is it the isolated assertion of “this is” without context. Instead, the immediate involves a dynamic relationship between consciousness and its object, one that transcends the mere appearance of things.

What is shown to us in the immediate is a truth that is not abstract but is embedded in the very experience of perceiving, thinking, and knowing. This immediacy does not stand apart from consciousness but is intimately tied to it. The Now, the Here, and the I are not fixed or absolute in themselves; they emerge through the act of consciousness itself, through its engagement with the object. Thus, the immediate is not a passive reflection of an external reality but an active and self-generating process of becoming. It is through this process that the object is understood not as an independent, external thing, but as part of a whole that consciousness itself is constantly creating and re-creating in its experience.

Therefore, the immediate that is shown to us is not simply an isolated “this” but the totality of experience in which the subject and object, the knower and the known, are intertwined. It is through this unity that the truth of the immediate emerges, not as something separate or fixed but as something that is continuously unfolding and becoming, shaped by both the object and the consciousness that knows it. This dynamic nature of immediacy reveals that truth is not a static possession, but a process of becoming that involves both subject and object in a constant, living relationship.

In this moment of observation, the Now that is shown reveals its inherent contradiction. It exists only in the instant of its presentation, and yet, as soon as it is presented, it slips away into the past. The Now is not a static entity but a fleeting moment, constantly in flux. What was once immediately present as the Now has already become something other as soon as we grasp it. This movement—the continuous transition from being to non-being—illustrates the very nature of immediacy: it is always in the process of becoming other, never fixed, and never truly present in the way we think it is.

This ceaseless movement challenges our conventional understanding of time and being. We expect the Now to remain as the moment we perceive it, yet it dissolves as we try to hold it. The Now is paradoxically both present and absent, as its existence is inseparable from its passing. Each instant, as it arises, is already on its way out, leaving behind only the trace of its former presence. This realization disrupts any notion of the Now as a simple, unchanging moment and forces us to confront the deeper truth of its existence: the Now is a constant becoming, an endless transition from what was to what is not.

Thus, the Now, in its essence, cannot be captured in any lasting form. It is both the reality of experience and its own negation. The immediacy we seek in the Now is always already negated by its passage, and in this sense, the Now is never truly present in its fullness. It exists only in the process of ceasing to exist. This realization brings us face to face with the limitations of sensory certainty, for it shows us that what we seek to grasp as the real, the immediate, is forever slipping away into time and becoming something else.

The Now, as it is presented, is not a static moment of being, but rather a fleeting fragment that has already passed. In this sense, the truth of the Now is not found in its immediate presence but in its transition into the past. It is no longer what it was; it has become something that “has been” and thus exists only as a memory of what once was. The Now does not preserve the essence of being in its immediacy, for it constantly slips into the realm of what is no longer present. What we claim as the truth of the Now is, paradoxically, not its ongoing being, but its ceasing to be—its dissolution into the past.

This recognition reveals the fundamental tension within the concept of the Now: it is simultaneously what has been and what is no longer. It no longer possesses the essence of pure being, but instead exists as a trace, a moment that was once real but is now gone. The very nature of the Now undermines its own claim to truth as an enduring presence. It is not the being we seek, but the trace of what was being. The essence of the Now lies not in its constancy but in its passage, its transition from being to non-being, a movement that denies it the permanence or stability typically associated with truth.

In this way, the Now reveals itself as an impossibility of grasping absolute truth. It is not a thing that exists, but a thing that was. It is an ever-moving moment that escapes any attempt to hold it in place, constantly revealing the inadequacy of sensory certainty to capture the essence of true being. The truth of the Now is only in the acknowledgment of its passage—its ceaseless becoming-other. What was at stake in this moment of immediacy is no longer a present reality but a vanishing essence, lost to time and only remembered in its disappearance.

In this process, we encounter a dynamic of negation and restoration that illustrates the dialectical nature of the Now. Initially, I point to the Now and assert it as truth, but in doing so, I immediately face its transitory nature. The Now that I assert is, by its nature, already slipping into the past, becoming something that has been, and thus, in its very assertion, I negate the truth of its immediacy. The Now, as it is presented, loses its truth as soon as it is recognized, for it ceases to be.

In response, I assert a second truth: that the Now has been, acknowledging that the immediate reality I pointed to is no longer present. This second truth—though it acknowledges the passing of the Now—merely captures the negation of the original truth. However, the moment I recognize that the Now has been, I encounter the paradox of its absence: what has been is no longer, and therefore, I must negate this second truth. By doing so, I return to the first truth, asserting once again that the Now is, reestablishing the original immediacy, albeit in a modified form that acknowledges its transitory nature.

This movement, however, is not circular; it is a progressive dialectic. Each negation and return brings me closer to a deeper understanding of the Now, not as a fixed moment, but as a constant process of becoming and ceasing to be. In this way, the Now is not a static truth but a dynamic one, constantly dissolving and reforming as it is reflected upon. Through this movement, the dialectic itself becomes evident, as each assertion of truth is countered by its negation, and yet each negation ultimately reveals a more profound grasp of the reality of the Now, both in its being and its ceasing to be.

Thus, the Now, as we initially encounter it, is not a mere moment of pure immediacy. Instead, it becomes a dialectical movement, unfolding in successive stages. The first assertion of the Now is immediately contradicted by the assertion of a different Now, one that annuls the first. But this contradiction is itself negated, and we return to the initial assertion. However, this return to the Now is no longer the same as the first, immediate Now; it is a Now that has been reflected upon and thus transformed.

The Now, as reflected upon, is no longer a simple, isolated moment. It is now a complex unity that contains its own negation and return. It is no longer just one Now, but many Nows, each nested within the other, each moment expanding and fracturing into further moments. The Now becomes a structure, a whole made of its parts, where each part is not merely a repetition of the whole but an unfolding of its deeper complexity. This is the true Now: a Now that is not only a simple day but a day containing many Nows, such as hours, each of which contains many more Nows, such as minutes. Each of these smaller Nows is likewise divisible into even smaller moments, ad infinitum.

In this way, the Now reveals itself not as a static, unchanging truth but as a dynamic process that continuously unfolds. What was once considered a singular, immediate reality becomes a complex web of relations, each moment in time interwoven with the others, each part containing the whole. The true Now, then, is not a singular point but an unfolding sequence of Nows, where each moment of time contains the traces of all other moments. This view of the Now, as a series of interconnected moments, is the true nature of time, which is not simply the passage of discrete, isolated moments, but the continuous flow of interconnected and interdependent Nows that form a unified whole. Thus, the Now is not just an isolated instant but a perpetual movement, a series of interconnected and overlapping moments that collectively make up time itself. Each individual Now carries within it the potential for all other Nows, which reflects the dialectical nature of time—constantly moving, unfolding, and becoming more complex while retaining its essential simplicity.

The true Now, then, is not merely the sum of its parts but a dynamic whole in which each moment contributes to the ongoing process of becoming. It is this movement of becoming, rather than any fixed or static moment, that constitutes the real essence of time. Through this dialectical unfolding, the Now is shown to be both self-sustaining and self-transforming, a continuous process of becoming that always exceeds its immediate, individual moments. Thus, the Now reveals itself as the true embodiment of time’s unfolding, both simple and infinitely complex in its nature.

The act of pointing thus reveals itself to be the very movement that articulates what the Now truly is: not merely a singular, isolated moment, but a culmination or collection of many Nows. When I point to the Now, I am not simply identifying a single instance of time; rather, I am engaging in a dynamic process that brings into focus the multiplicity and interconnectedness of moments that constitute the true essence of the Now. This act of pointing becomes an active participation in the unfolding of time, where each individual Now is both a part of and a reflection of a larger, universal continuum.

In this sense, the act of pointing transcends its immediate function as a gesture of indication. It becomes an experiential process through which the Now is understood as a universal—a comprehensive, all-encompassing reality that integrates countless moments into a unified whole. Each pointed Now is a manifestation of this universality, embodying the interplay between the immediate and the mediated, the particular and the universal. By pointing, I engage with the Now not as an isolated instance, but as a representative of the infinite series of Nows that collectively define the temporal experience.

Therefore, the act of pointing is intrinsically linked to the very nature of the Now as a universal. It is through this act that the simplicity of the immediate moment is revealed to be a complex, layered reality. The Now, when pointed to, discloses its true character as a universal—an enduring, self-sustaining essence that encompasses all individual Nows within its fold. This realization transforms the act of pointing from a mere directional gesture into a profound encounter with the universal nature of time itself, where each Now is both a distinct moment and an integral part of an infinite, unified whole.

The Here that is pointed to and held as fixed is, in its essence, not merely this singular Here, but a dynamic and expansive concept that encompasses a multiplicity of spatial relations. The act of pointing to the Here reveals that it is not a static, singular position but a relative and interdependent moment in space. As soon as we attempt to define or hold the Here as fixed, it begins to unravel into a complex web of relations—before and behind, above and below, right and left. Each of these relations is itself a multiplicity, a constant interplay of perspectives and spatial positions, thus negating the idea of a singular, absolute Here.

In the process of examining the Here, we see how the act of pointing or designating it quickly dissipates the illusion of fixity. The Here that was initially to be identified dissolves into a continuum of Heres, each new Here becoming a moment in an infinite series, bound by relationality rather than singularity. As we move through the Here, it ceases to be the fixed point we intended, as it is perpetually displaced by new perspectives and new relational contexts. What we thought of as the Here is merely a snapshot, an abstraction that fails to capture the totality of its existence, which is inherently dynamic and transient.

The dissolution of the singular Here into a series of relational Heres reflects the true nature of spatiality: a constant flux where no single point can remain static or absolute. The concept of the Here, like the Now, reveals its true character not in isolation but as part of a larger, interconnected whole. Each Here, upon being examined, reveals itself as an infinite network of possibilities, where one point cannot be understood without reference to another. Thus, the Here, like the Now, is not a fixed, isolated entity but a universal, ever-changing moment that dissolves into a web of relations and transformations, always in motion and always becoming something other.

What is pointed to and held as fixed and enduring is revealed to be a negative This, existing only in the act of pointing but constantly annulled within the flux of its own movement. The Here, as it is meant to be specific, appears to be a point, a fixed location in space. However, this point does not truly exist in the way we intend. Instead, when we attempt to grasp or articulate it as existing, the act of pointing itself exposes a deeper truth: the specific Here is not a singular, isolated entity, but rather a transition through many Heres. These Heres are not static or permanent but part of a continuous, unfolding process that always leads us away from the intended point and toward a broader, universal understanding of the Here.

The process of pointing thus does not provide us with immediate, unmediated knowledge, but instead reveals the act of pointing itself as a dynamic movement. This movement flows from the particular intended Here—an isolated, fixed point—through a multitude of other Heres, which are in constant flux and transition, toward the universal Here. In this sense, the specific Here is never fully grasped as a singular moment; instead, it dissolves into a network of relations, constantly shifting as it is understood through different perspectives and contexts. The very act of pointing, rather than fixing the Here, exposes its inherent instability and interconnectedness, leading us to a realization of its true nature as a universal.

Therefore, the intended fixed point of the Here is, in truth, a mere abstraction—a negative This that cannot stand on its own. What we call the Here is ultimately not a singular, enduring point, but a movement through a multitude of potential Heres, a movement toward an ever-expanding understanding of spatiality. The pointing itself, which was meant to isolate and fix the Here, instead becomes a process that undermines the idea of a static location, revealing the Here as a moment of flux and transition, always in the process of becoming something other. This dynamic transition, in turn, leads us to the universal Here—a concept that encompasses all particular instances of the Here, unified not in isolation but in their interconnected, ever-shifting relations.

This universal Here, much like the Now, embodies a simple multiplicity. Just as the day is a singular unity that contains within it the many Nows—each moment flowing into the next, yet all together forming a continuous whole—so too does the Here function as a singular unity composed of many Heres. Each particular Here, though it may seem isolated in its moment of perception, is in fact interconnected with and dissolved into a vast array of other Heres. These Heres are not independent or isolated but are part of a continuous, flowing series that cannot be fully grasped as singular or static.

The universal Here, therefore, is not a fixed point but a dynamic, ever-evolving unity. It contains within it all the particular Heres that appear and disappear within our perception, yet it transcends any one of them. Each instance of the Here—each specific location, whether in space or perception—is merely a manifestation of the universal Here, a fleeting moment within a broader, ongoing reality. Thus, the Here is not something we can capture as an isolated, static object; instead, it is always in motion, always part of a larger, interconnected whole.

In this sense, the universal Here challenges our typical understanding of space and location. It reveals itself not as a fixed, individual place but as an aggregate of multiple, interconnected Heres that together form a unified experience of space. Just as the day is made up of many Nows, so the Here is made up of many Heres, each moment of which is fleeting and yet contributes to the ongoing unfolding of the whole. The true nature of the Here, then, is not in any single, isolated instance, but in the movement and transition between all possible Heres, unified in their shared, ever-present existence.

The dialectic of sensory certainty, as it unfolds, is not an abstract or distant concept but rather the direct, lived experience of consciousness. It is the very movement of consciousness itself—a continuous unfolding of understanding that begins with the immediate, sensory apprehension of the world and moves through a process of negation, realization, and reassertion. Sensory certainty, then, is not a static state but an ongoing narrative of experience, where each moment is tied to the next in a dynamic progression.

However, while this movement is inherent to the nature of sensory certainty, natural consciousness often fails to recognize the progress it has made. It gets caught in the immediate and the particular, continually forgetting the larger movement and retracing its steps as if starting anew. This cyclical nature is essential to the experience of sensory certainty—consciousness repeatedly returns to its starting point, only to be propelled forward once more by the unfolding of its experience. Each return to the beginning is not a mere repetition but a step forward, a reintegration of the past into a broader understanding.

The consistent forgetting and restarting are not flaws but essential moments of the dialectic itself. They reflect the tension between the immediate, sensory apprehension of the world and the deeper, more reflective understanding that emerges from this experience. Sensory certainty is thus a paradox: it is both an unbroken story of experience and a cycle of repeated beginnings, where each moment of forgetting and starting over carries within it the potential for new insight. This dialectical movement is the very essence of natural consciousness, which, while seemingly caught in repetition, is always advancing toward a deeper realization of truth.

It is surprising, then, that despite the universal experience of the dialectic of sensory certainty—where the immediate, particular apprehension of the world is continually mediated and transformed—the claim endures that the reality or being of external things, as they appear in sensory perception, holds absolute truth for consciousness. This claim, in its attempt to assert the unmediated truth of sensory objects, fails to recognize the very nature of what it asserts. In fact, it inadvertently contradicts itself by reinforcing the very process of negation and transformation that it seeks to deny.

When consciousness asserts the truth of the external world as directly given, it forgets the dialectical movement that defines its experience. The moment of sensory certainty—where the object is perceived as immediate and self-sufficient—is but a fleeting moment within a larger, dynamic process. By fixing the truth of external things as unchanging and absolute, this claim ignores the fact that sensory certainty itself is inherently fluid, always moving and evolving. The object, in this sense, is never static but always undergoing a process of mediation and negation.

Thus, the assertion that external things hold absolute truth for consciousness is not only philosophically misguided but also a denial of the very nature of experience. It treats what is in constant flux as if it were permanent, locking it into a false immediacy. In doing so, it overlooks the deeper reality of experience, where truth is found not in the unchanging object but in the movement of consciousness itself—its unfolding, its mediation, and its eventual realization of the unity between subject and object.

The supposed truth of the sensory “This” for consciousness is often claimed to be a universal experience; however, the opposite is, in fact, universally experienced. Every consciousness, in its engagement with the world, inevitably negates such truths as “Here is a tree” or “Now is midday” by asserting their opposites: “Here is not a tree but a house,” or “Now is not midday but evening.” Each assertion of a sensory “This” is continually annulled as new determinations and observations emerge. This cycle of negation reveals that the true nature of sensory certainty is not the fixed, singular “This,” but rather its transformation into a universal.

In all sensory certainty, what is truly experienced is not a static, immediate truth, but a process of mediation where the “This” is shown to be, not what it initially appeared to be, but a universal, encompassing all other possible “Heres” and “Nows.” The experience of the sensory world is inherently dialectical—constantly moving from one assertion to its negation, and thus revealing a deeper truth than the initial sensory certainty. The true universal of the “This” is not something isolated but rather a concept that includes all possibilities, showing the limitations of the immediate and sensory experience.

Therefore, what is often described as a universal experience in sensory certainty is, in reality, an illusion—a misperception of the true nature of experience. The universal that is discovered through the process of negation is precisely the opposite of the “universal experience” that is typically assumed. The truth, then, lies not in the immediate assertion of sensory objects, but in the recognition of the dynamic movement through which consciousness unfolds and reveals its deeper understanding of the world.

In invoking this “universal experience,” we may anticipate a more practical perspective. From this vantage point, those who insist on the truth and certainty of the reality of sensory objects might be gently reminded of the foundational lessons of wisdom—those ancient Eleusinian mysteries of Demeter and Dionysus. Before they can understand the full significance of sensory experience, they must first learn the secret of eating bread and drinking wine. These simple acts, seemingly mundane, carry deeper truths for those initiated into the mysteries. Through these rituals, they are not merely consuming sustenance but are also engaging in a symbolic act of confronting the nature of reality itself.

The initiates, having experienced these truths firsthand, do not merely come to doubt the existence of sensory objects—they arrive at a profound despair over them. The bread and wine, which symbolize the physical world and its fleeting nature, lead them to a deep realization of the nullity of sensory things. In the rituals of the Eleusinian mysteries, the participants actively witness the dissolution of what they thought was real. They come to understand that sensory certainty, when fully examined, reveals itself not as a stable, enduring truth but as a series of transient and ever-changing phenomena.

Thus, the mystery of eating and drinking becomes an allegory for the process of philosophical awakening. It is through engaging with the world directly—by partaking in its most fundamental elements—that one comes to see the impermanence and ultimately the emptiness of sensory reality. The initiation into these mysteries, then, is not merely about gaining knowledge but about experiencing the very dissolution of the certainties that once seemed so absolute.

Even animals, in their instinctual way, are not excluded from this wisdom. On the contrary, they prove to be the deepest initiates of all. Unlike humans, who are often trapped in the illusion of sensory things as absolute, independent realities, animals do not pause in reverence or hesitation before these objects. They do not treat sensory things as things-in-themselves, but instead, in complete certainty of their nullity, they reach out, seize, and devour them without hesitation. This simple, unburdened engagement with the world reflects an essential truth: that the objects of sensory certainty, while momentarily appearing as real, are ultimately transient and devoid of intrinsic permanence.

In this way, animals, through their actions, embody a form of direct wisdom. They do not cling to the illusion of permanence but instinctively act with an understanding that transcends the human tendency to grasp at fixed truths. They move through the world without the weight of philosophical doubt, in a state of immediate engagement that, paradoxically, brings them closer to the essence of things. They participate in nature’s mysteries not by seeking to intellectualize or analyze them, but by living in harmony with the flow of being, recognizing the impermanence and nullity of what is sensed.

Thus, all of nature celebrates, in its own way, these evident mysteries—through the actions of animals, plants, and the very elements themselves. The true nature of sensory things is revealed in the quiet certainty of their transience, as seen in the unreflective behavior of animals. They embody, perhaps more clearly than humans, the understanding that the world is not something to be clung to or revered as permanent, but something to be engaged with freely, fully aware of its inevitable dissolution. Through this, they teach us that the truth of sensory things is not in their static existence, but in their constant becoming and ceasing to be.

Those who make such claims, as we have observed, unknowingly speak the opposite of what they intend. This contradiction is one of the most striking aspects that should provoke deeper reflection on the nature of sensory certainty. These individuals assert the existence of external objects, defining them as actual, singular, and wholly unique—each one entirely without its equal. They insist that this existence is the foundation of absolute certainty and truth, treating sensory objects as the undeniable bedrock of reality. However, the very nature of sensory certainty reveals this assertion to be flawed.

In truth, these objects, which are presented as ultimate and independent, are not as fixed and certain as they seem. Sensory certainty, when closely examined, demonstrates that these objects are in constant flux, constantly shifting and transforming. The certainty these individuals cling to is not grounded in an unchanging reality but is instead rooted in an unstable, ever-changing relation between consciousness and its objects. The assertion of a singular, absolute, and unchanging reality stands in direct contradiction to the dynamic, mediated nature of sensory experience.

Thus, by treating sensory objects as absolute truths, these claims inadvertently expose their own limitations. The certainty they rely on is not an unmediated connection to the object but a product of perception, interpretation, and the inherent contradictions within consciousness. The true nature of sensory certainty lies not in the static, isolated existence of objects but in the unfolding, interconnected movement of consciousness, which constantly reconfigures its relation to the world. In this sense, the certainty of sensory objects is itself a kind of illusion, a transient and ever-changing appearance that consciousness imposes on an otherwise fluid and dynamic reality.

They mean this particular piece of paper upon which I am now writing—or rather, have written. But what they intend to express cannot truly be articulated. If they sincerely sought to convey this specific piece of paper they refer to and attempted to do so, they would encounter an inherent impossibility. The sensory This, as it is meant in its particularity, evades expression through language, for language itself belongs to consciousness, which is inherently universal.

Language, by its nature, is not designed to capture the uniqueness of an individual sensory object; it is bound to concepts that transcend singularities and point to generalities. When one attempts to name or describe the particular this—such as a specific object or moment—it can never fully encompass the immediacy and singularity of that object. Language’s inherent abstraction transforms what is meant, turning the specific this into something generalized, something that fits into a broader category or set of experiences. In this way, the very tool we use to express certainty—the word—falls short in conveying the true essence of the object as it is meant.

Thus, the tension arises between the immediacy of sensory certainty and the abstracted, mediated nature of language. No matter how exact the language may be, it cannot fully capture the essence of the sensory This. Instead, it always reduces it to a concept, to something universally applicable, and in doing so, it distances itself from the particularity that was initially meant. In this way, what is meant by the sensory This is not merely inaccessible but becomes something other than what it was intended to be, caught in the web of abstraction that is intrinsic to language.

In the very act of attempting to articulate it, the sensory This deteriorates. Even if one were to begin describing it, they could not complete the description. The task would eventually fall to others, who would ultimately be forced to admit that what they are speaking about does not truly exist in the way they intended. Thus, they mean this particular piece of paper, which is entirely different from the one previously mentioned, but what they end up articulating are only universals: real things, external objects, sensory objects, or absolutely singular beings. In other words, they express only the universal.

The tension between the particular and the universal is evident here. What is meant by the individual This cannot be fully captured by the universal terms language provides. The very attempt to express it transforms the unique, concrete reality into something general and abstract. The meaning that one wishes to convey becomes something entirely different, diminished and abstracted through the universalization of language. This inevitable shift from the particular to the universal is the heart of the paradox in the act of articulation.

What is often referred to as the “unspeakable” is, in this light, nothing but the untrue, the irrational, or the merely meant. It is not that the object cannot be spoken of at all, but rather that it cannot be truly captured by the limitations of language. The language used to describe the particular This inevitably falls short, reducing it to something generalized and abstract—an empty representation rather than the concrete reality it intends to express. In this sense, the act of attempting to speak of the particular sensory object reveals its own inadequacy and the impossibility of ever fully capturing the immediacy of experience through language.

When it is said of something only that it is a real thing, an external object, its most general nature is expressed. In this statement, the specific individuality of the object is obscured, and its similarity to all other things is emphasized. This universal statement fails to capture the particular essence of the object—it reduces it to a mere instance of something general and interchangeable. The focus shifts from the unique characteristics of the object to its place within the broader category of “real things,” making it indistinguishable from countless other objects.

Similarly, when I say a singular thing, I am still speaking in universal terms. Even the notion of a “singular thing” carries within it the implication that all things are singular in their own way, and therefore, any particular this can be whatever one chooses to imagine. The singular is not a definitive, unchangeable identity but a concept that can apply to anything within the realm of perception. By framing something as singular, I am still engaging with a universal category that strips away the specific and unique qualities of the object in question.

In both instances, whether referring to a real thing or a singular thing, we find that the act of description inevitably reduces the object to a generality, distancing it from its particularity. The essence of the object is lost in the language of universals, which only serves to diminish the object’s individuality, making it part of an indistinct whole rather than allowing it to be recognized in its true, particular nature. Thus, every attempt to express the this through universal language exposes the tension between the immediacy of experience and the abstract nature of language, which can never fully capture the specificity of the object being described.

Even if I attempt to specify more precisely by saying “this piece of paper,” I still only express the universal. The very act of identifying it as a “piece of paper” places it within a category, stripping away its unique, individual characteristics. Every piece of paper can be referred to as “this piece of paper,” which means that I am not addressing the singular, unrepeatable reality of the object, but rather a general type or category that encompasses all such objects.

In saying “this piece of paper,” I inadvertently reduce it to its most basic, generalized form. The term “this” in this context does not serve to point to something entirely specific; rather, it remains an abstraction. It expresses something that could apply to any piece of paper, or in fact, to any object that could be identified in the same manner. What I have said is not the particular essence of the object in front of me, but simply the general quality it shares with all other pieces of paper.

Thus, despite my attempt to specify, I have only reiterated the universal nature of the object. Language, in its attempt to pinpoint the “this,” inevitably universalizes the object, transforming the particular into something that can never fully escape the general. In this way, the uniqueness of the specific object—the singular experience of “this” piece of paper—is always subsumed under the broader, more abstract concept of “a piece of paper,” leaving the actual this unspoken and unattainable.

If, in an effort to bypass the limitation of speech—an act imbued with a divine nature, capable of transforming meaning—I try instead to point to this piece of paper, I come to a deeper realization about the true nature of sensory certainty. By pointing to it as a Here, I expose it not as a singular, isolated entity but as a Here made up of other Heres, revealing it as a unity of many Heres. Each instance of “Here” leads to the understanding that what I am pointing to is not just this piece of paper, but a moment of transition, a part of a greater whole, inherently bound up with its surroundings and context.

In essence, this realization causes me to grasp the piece of paper not as a fixed and immediate object but as something universal. The piece of paper is no longer just a particular object sitting before me in this moment; it becomes part of a larger system, a fluid and interconnected reality. I cease to know it in its immediate, sensory certainty—its raw, unexamined presence—and begin to perceive it in its truth, which encompasses both its particularity and its relation to everything else around it.

Thus, by pointing to it and understanding it in this way, I move beyond the limits of immediate knowledge. The Now, the Here, and the I all dissolve into a greater unity of experience, where meaning is no longer confined to the isolated “this” but is revealed as something more intricate and interconnected. This is the truth of sensory certainty: not a static, independent object, but a dynamic, relational phenomenon that is always in the process of becoming and dissolving within the broader context of knowledge and experience.

Simon Gros

The This and the Universal: Revisiting Sensory Certainty and Meaning

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The This and the Universal: Revisiting Sensory Certainty and Meaning

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