When I am lost, I remember Patanjali. I reach for any one of the three renditions of his masterpiece I have on hand, open it at random, and start reading in earnest. More often than not, relief comes quite readily, and I put the book down with a smile on my face. In him, I find myself again, as it were. To paraphrase Pascal about Montaigne, it is not in Patanjali, but in myself, that I find all that I see in him (“First Person,” November 22, 1988). Which is perhaps why I do not remember him almost at all when I am not lost. At such times, it is not in myself, but in Patanjali, that I find all that I see in myself. Fortunately, Pascal’s enchanting riddle works both ways.