would belittle, or even destroy the vastness and simplicity of the
　　　　  koan that is Ohio Impromptu.
　　　　  One of the reasons that L and R originally perceive themselves (or
　　　　  are perceived) as different is because they have not yet found their
　　　　  original faces, their (original) enlightened selves. From the
　　　　  internal narrative (and assuming a congruence between what's going
　　　　  on stage and in the narrative), we are told that since the
　　　　  listener's separation from his Beloved (the owner of "the dear
　　　　  name"), he has been subject to "his old terror of the night" (286-7)
　　　　  -- he, like Vladimir, Estragon, and many another Beckettian
　　　　  character, is a conscious, wanting, and waiting "I" who suffers from
　　　　  desire: desire to perceive and be perceived; desire for "another
　　　　  living soul"(24) With whom to interact and from whom hopefully to
　　　　  find relief. This other (more exactly, the messenger of this other),
　　　　  is perceived as someone separate, a distinct and therefore
　　　　  unknowable other. According to Zen philosophy, however, it is only
　　　　  because the listener maintains a causal, historically influenced
　　　　  frame of reference that he perceives the reader as separate, or even
　　　　  feels the anguish of separation and waiting/ longing for his
　　　　  Beloved. The listener is both correct and incorrect when he claims
　　　　  that "Nothing he had ever done alone could ever be undone. By him
　　　　  alone" (286). So long as he maintains a distinction between self and
　　　　  other, he is correct: nothing can be undone by him alone. If,
　　　　  however, he changes his vision to that of the marginalized frame of
　　　　  reference -- the without-context of Zen -- he will perceive all
　　　　  around him without the need for self-reifying categories like
　　　　  "alone," and will therefore be released from everything he ever did
　　　　  alone (in the old frame of reference).
　　　　  From the new frame of reference, what plagues the listener (and thus
　　　　  L and/ or R) is not the loss of his Beloved one but the loss of his
　　　　  true nature -- his prereflective consciousness beyond consciousness
　　　　  -- or equally, his inability to return to the state of
　　　　  without-subjectivity. However, this changes during the play: though
　　　　  the listener (and L, R, and us along with him) initially regards the
　　　　  messenger as a completely separate entity, as the play progresses we
　　　　  are told that "[w]ith never a word exchanged they grew to be as one"
　　　　  (287); through the repeated ritual of reading the story/koan, the
　　　　  two lose their distinctness, slowly merging into a single "one."