Perhaps I am doomed to retrace my steps under the illusion that I

“Perhaps I am doomed to retrace my steps under the illusion that I am exploring, doomed to try and learn what I should simply recognize, learning a mere fraction of what I have forgotten,” wrote André Breton, the poet, dreamer, and father of Surrealism — a movement that sought to unveil the secret depths of the human mind. In this haunting reflection, Breton speaks not only as an artist but as a philosopher of the soul. His words carry the sorrow and wonder of one who has realized that learning, in its truest form, is often a journey back to what we already know deep within — a return to a wisdom that time and convention have taught us to forget. He reminds us that the path of discovery is not a straight line forward, but a circle that leads us back to the beginning — back to ourselves.

To be doomed to retrace one’s steps is, in Breton’s eyes, the human condition itself. From birth, we are filled with wonder, instinct, and purity of perception — yet as we grow, the world teaches us to forget. We learn to see with the eyes of others, to think within the confines of reason, to silence the language of intuition and dream. And so, the seeker, the artist, the philosopher — each must spend a lifetime searching for the lost truths that once came naturally. What he calls an “illusion of exploring” is the paradox of wisdom: we believe we are discovering new lands, when in truth, we are uncovering ancient continents buried within our own souls.

The ancients knew this paradox well. Plato, in his philosophy of “anamnesis,” taught that all learning is but recollection — the awakening of knowledge the soul once possessed before birth. Breton, though centuries removed, echoes this same truth through the language of modernity and mysticism. When he speaks of being “doomed to try and learn what I should simply recognize,” he acknowledges that much of what we strive to know — beauty, love, truth — is not foreign, but forgotten. It lies within us like a memory half-dreamed, waiting to be remembered rather than taught.

Consider the story of Buddha, who wandered through years of ascetic discipline seeking enlightenment. He starved himself, meditated through pain, and studied with teachers — until one day, he realized that the truth he sought was already within him. Under the Bodhi tree, he ceased to strive and simply recognized what had always been true. His awakening was not the gaining of something new, but the remembering of what he had forgotten. Breton’s lament — that he learns only “a mere fraction of what I have forgotten” — mirrors this insight: that our greatest discoveries are not found in the world’s complexity, but in the rediscovery of our own forgotten simplicity.

There is both melancholy and wisdom in Breton’s confession. The word “doomed” reveals a soul aware of the endlessness of this cycle — of how easily the human spirit drifts from its source. We wander through learning and experience, accumulating knowledge like shells upon the shore, yet beneath it all, we feel the ocean of memory pulling us back. We are creatures who forget, and therefore must constantly seek. But there is beauty in this, too: for even if we remember only fragments, those fragments are enough to illuminate the darkness. Each glimpse of truth, though partial, rekindles the divine memory within us.

In this way, Breton’s words are not merely a lament, but a meditation on the mystery of existence. To explore under the illusion is not failure — it is our fate, and perhaps our salvation. For in believing we are discovering anew, we allow ourselves to approach the forgotten with fresh eyes. Every rediscovery becomes an act of creation, a re-enchantment of what was once taken for granted. The illusion of exploration is itself a gift — a way for the soul to fall in love again with the truths it once knew too well.

From this, let every seeker take a lesson: do not despair if your steps seem circular, if your lessons seem to repeat. Life is not a straight road toward mastery, but a spiral of remembrance. What feels like repetition may be deepening. What seems like forgetting may be a preparation to recall more profoundly. The world will always move you to forget your essence — your wonder, your intuition, your love — but your task is to remember.

So, as André Breton teaches, walk the path of learning not as one chasing the new, but as one uncovering the ancient within. Let every book, every journey, every failure, and every joy bring you closer to what your soul has always known. Accept the illusion of exploration, for through it, you may rediscover the eternal truths buried in your heart. And though you may learn only “a fraction of what you have forgotten,” let that fraction be enough to remind you of who you truly are — a being made not merely to know, but to remember.