According to the Hindu philosopher Shankara, all things, from Brahman the Creator down to a single blade of grass, are simply appearance and not real. Illusion or not, the young Arthur Butler existed in his own time and place, until at the age of nineteen, during the Battle of the Marne in in July 1918 his heart stopped beating, his blood stopped flowing and he died alone in France. He never married, he never raised chldren. He never got up on cold mornings to go to work; he never lost his job in the Thirties nor did he make his fortune. He never caught colds, never experienced true love; never came home late at night. In fact he never even came home. He lies where he died at the foot of a narrow, elongated vineyard. And then he was granted a second chance. An opportunity to be himself, for good or bad, wherever and however he wished.