We shall call the hordes who don't know the existence of that theatre stage, 'the unconscious ones'. They are unconscious of their own selves, they don't even know that they exist. What do they think? I can't imagine. We won't bother about them. But now we sorcerer's apprentices are looking for something useful to do. It's boring staring at an empty stage. Well, I'm not going to do what I did last time (in my book):
Taking our stand, then, in an ultimately illogical universe, we shall not ask why our world exists, or indeed why there is any world. Still, if there is no explaining contingent existence, nor even accounting for its inexplicability, there remains the modest but important task of definition. What is a world? What is it to be the world? or this world? or our world? (Whence the definite description? Whence the indexicals?) What is it, of which we were once prompted, so foolishly, to ask the question, Why? whose existing in the face of all the alternatives including the awesome possibility of nothing has led human beings to wonder, to worship, to speculate, even at the certain risk of talking nonsense?I've been there, done it, I'm not going there again. To stretch the metaphor, what I'm saying, in effect, in the quoted passage is: 'There's no reason to continue endlessly towards the horizon. I shall stop here and build my house.' And that's exactly what I did, or tried to do.
(Naive Metaphysics p.2)
A sorcerer's apprentice knows that there is more to metaphysics than describing everything you see from where you stand regardless of where that might be, even if it be in the middle of nowhere and no matter how boring the description. We know better. Don't we? (That's not a rhetorical question, and, for once, I'm not being ironic.)