Who Is the “I” in “I Think”?

We say “I think” without noticing the claim tucked inside those two words. A thought appears, and grammar gives it an owner. But what, exactly, is the “I” that knows?

Try staying with a thought for a moment. You can notice it, follow it, question it, or let it pass. You can also notice that a thought you once treated as certain has changed. Knowing is happening; that much is clear. The identity of the one supposedly doing all the knowing is less clear.

The mind is remarkably good at knowing. It remembers, names, compares, predicts, and builds explanations. These abilities help us find our way through ordinary life. Yet the usefulness of thought does not settle the question of who we are. A description of an experience is still a description. A thought about the self is still a thought.

This is the opening in saying “I know nothing.” Taken literally as a claim of ignorance, the phrase makes little sense. We know how to cross a street, recognize a face, and keep an appointment. Taken as an inquiry, it asks whether the “I” we defend is identical with the mind's inventory of what it knows.

There is no need to prove an answer before looking. We can notice what thinking does and where it helps. We can also notice the moment an explanation begins to stand in for direct experience. Knowing about a conversation is different from being in it. Knowing a definition of listening is different from listening now.

The distinction is not an attack on knowledge. It gives knowledge its place. Thought can serve life without having to explain the whole of the person living it. When “I think” becomes something we can examine, rather than a sentence we must take for granted, a little room opens around what we know.