He receives the book in the mail and finds that it contains pictures of himself. In addition, there are written descriptions of virtuous and shameful episodes from his life. The words do not seem necessary, and while conscious of their existence, he appears to be capable of reading the images alone. He is unsure whether the images have been collected with any purpose. He does not think to look at the cover, the title or the author of the book. The book does not serve as a postmodern abstraction; there is no suggestion that it is to be identified with himself or to replace his reality through representation. Nor does it call to mind a book of judgement; it is not complete, and his unsettled mood is related more to uncertainty and confusion than guilt.
The book is not to be reviewed, subjected to his own text. The book is not to be shared with anybody.
The book does not contain anything he has written.