It is a great temptation to make the spirit explicit, writes Wittgenstein; a temptation to which this world has not merely succumbed, but has fully embraced. The mind is a creature of ideas, a maker of realities, assembling light and sound and touch into things and places and desires, whose existences are pure, timeless, and indestructible. Longing for certainty, we come to prefer our conceptions to the world from which we drew them, and like nineteenth century German hunters, replant our forests in stiff, empty rows to make our hunting more efficient.