[b]Oliver Sacks from The Man Who Mistook His Wife for a Hat
But the saddest difference between them was that Zazetsky, as Luria said, ‘fought to regain his lost faculties with the indomitable tenacity of the damned,’ whereas Dr P. was not fighting, did not know what was lost. But who was more tragic, or who was more damned – the man who knew it, or the man who did not?[/b]
Obviously: it depends on just how grim the reality is that having your faculties intact reveals.
Thus the feeling I sometimes have - which all of us who work closely with aphasiacs have - that one cannot lie to an aphasiac. He cannot grasp your words, and cannot be deceived by them; but what he grasps he grasps with infallible precision, namely the expression that goes with the words, the total, spontaneous, involuntary expressiveness which can never be simulated or faked, as words alone can, too easily.
Just for the record:
“aphasia : involving or exhibiting loss or impairment of the power to use or comprehend words”
Perhaps there is a philosophical as well as a clinical lesson here: that in Korsakov’s, or dementia, or other such catastrophes, however great the organic damage and Humean dissolution, there remains the undiminished possibility of reintegration by art, by communion, by touching the human spirit: and this can be preserved in what seems at first a hopeless state of neurological devastation.
I’m actually looking forward to it myself. If you know what I mean.
…animals get diseases, but only man falls radically into sickness.
Next: animals die…
Astounded—and indifferent—for he was a man who, in effect, had no ‘day before’.
That’ll do it no doubt.
What is more important for us, at an elemental level, than the control, the owning and operation, of our own physical selves? And yet it is so automatic, so familiar, we never give it a thought.
Trust me: I do.