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The argument of this chapter is that the writing of sensation fiction was itself part of the critical endeavour to make sense of the enormous excitement that it produced. There is, in other words, a tendency towards self-investigation and self-reflection inherent in the sensational imagination. Mary Elizabeth Braddon’s Lady Audley’s Secret and Aurora Floyd, for instance, seem to read and review, repeatedly, the very art that constitutes them. In accordance with Braddon’s letters to Edward Bulwer-Lytton, these novels, being engaged in a quest for their own meaning and social function, are uncertain about the very sensational effects that they helped to create. Likewise, the stories of Wilkie Collins’s Armadale and The Moonstone contain within themselves various models of the creative activity through which they were assembled and made into their characteristically suspended, drawn-out shape. By means of such models, the chapter argues, Collins’s writing makes itself legible, between the lines, as an experimental practice that composes its form as it goes along, rather than on the basis of a predefined plan.

This chapter presents a definition of “reflective awareness” to introduce the link between it and language. It treats reflective awareness as synonymous with “consciousness,” i.e. the knowing that one knows. In thinking about itself, the brain is faced with a myriad of difficulties because it becomes “thinker” and “thought” at once, and this duality is beyond introspection. The generality of this duality makes it more problematic, apart from the brain trying to identify a phenomenon that is constantly part of what is being experienced. There are two main difficulties that must be addressed in the brain’s self-investigation. First, the brain cannot get past regressive circularities about itself; and second, it cannot allow inquiry into itself if this undermines its sense of security.

Part I investigates a wide range of autobiographies, alongside work on the history and literary criticism of autobiography, on narrative, and on the philosophies of the self and of the good life. It works from the point of view of the autobiographer, and considers what she does, what she aims at, and how she achieves her effects, to answer three questions: what is an autobiography? How can we learn about ourselves from reading one? About what subjects does autobiography teach? This part of the book develops, first, an account of autobiography as paradigmatically a narrative artefact in a genre defined by its form: particular diachronic compositional self-reflection. Second, an account of narrative as paradigmatically a generic telling of a connected temporal sequence of particular actions taken by, and particular events which happen to, agents. It defends rationalism about autobiography: autobiography is in itself a distinctive and valuable form of ethical reasoning, and not merely involved in reasoning of other, more familiar kinds. It distinguishes two purposes of autobiography, self-investigation and self-presentation. It identifies five kinds of self-knowledge at which autobiographical self-investigation typically aims—explanation, justification, self-enjoyment, selfhood, and good life—and argues that meaning is not a distinct sixth kind. It then focusses on the book’s two main concerns, selfhood and good life: it sets out the wide range of existing accounts, taxonomies, and tasks for each, and gives an initial characterisation of the self-realization account of the self and its good which is defended in Part II.