The “memory of being” in the for-itself becomes understandable, on an appropriately Darwinian rereading, as a case not of nostalgia but of horror – at the complete alienness of the puerile “motive” lodged in the in-itself for “trying” to become its own foundation. (That there is, a priori, a natural history of consciousness is the new crucible of nausea.) Why is there consciousness? Because there was a mindless bifurcation of repetition within the in-itself, between what repeated only the All and (thus) not itself, and what repeated “itself” as one and (apparently) not the All, while this bifurcation was still, from a broader perspective, just the repetition of the All’s absolute power to select. The cause of the for-itself was a reason only in retrospect, or for another. Actually there was no reason, but a tautology that ought (at least once) to be experienced as unbearably revolting: what did not, in repeating “itself”, slouch toward the for-itself, was not selected. What did not have the knack for getting repeated was not repeated.