For a time Buckmaster left the philosophers and read poetry. He found germs of what he sought in some of them, as Goethe's, _The force which draws the lover, and the force which draws the planets are one_. He found it beautifully in a stanza of Wordsworth's. _Something Whose dwelling is the light of the setting suns, And the round ocean, and the living air,_ _And the blue sky, and the mind of man;-- A motion and a spirit, all objects of all thought, And rolls through all things._ In the main, however, he found in the poets that the grains of wheat were too few amidst the chaff and returned to philosophy. Most of these excerpts, he felt, were clues to the enigma of himself. He knew that these great minds had touched on the very mystery that puzzled him. Once again he felt on the verge of _understanding_. Did he have all the pieces? Could he fit them into the pattern, if he but knew how? Or must he need to learn more? Suddenly he found the explanation in a book of essays by, the incongruity of it struck him as ironical, an anonymous writer. He read: _For a time, during the middle ages, the theory that all the world, and even the universe, were figments of one giant imagination, swayed the thinkers of the world. The intellect in which this imagination centered was focused in one man, and one man only, in the whole of existence. That man was the one man who "thought." All other men, all other matter, were but imagined props with no actual existence. That man is the one who "thinks!" "You"--and only "you," the person who is reading this--in the whole world. It does not matter what your name might be. It might be...._ Clifford Buckmaster knew then the mystery of life, who he was, and why. He no longer concentrated, but his eyes read on: _At first glance it would seem that there is a concerted conspiracy to avoid acknowledging this fact. Learned men, acquiring wisdom, come to the brink of the great discovery, and then deftly skirt it, blinding themselves to its evidentness. However, on second thought the reason is obvious. The theory is anarchistic; it carries the seeds of its own futility. If they were ever to admit the truth of it, all reason for everything--their very discovery, their very thoughts--would be futile. So they refuse to recognize it._ _Your obvious question is, How can I tell you this? Who am I--the writer of this essay? The answer is quite simple. I am merely a figment of your imagination, as is everything else about you!_ At last he knew. His first sensation was one of awful, empty solitude. He was one creature--alone. Alone in a universe!