‘You were saying you always composed at the typewriter.’
‘Yes. So, now, since I’ll no longer have direct access to a keyboard, and therefore to the idea of letters as objects, letters as individual objects, letters as hard, solid, buttony things that I can see and not only see but feel and touch and press, well, I’m going to need some time to adjust. Do you understand?’
‘Yes, of course.’
‘It’s a bit like a smoker who’s just given up smoking. The absence of nicotine is one thing – the essential thing, I imagine – I’ve never tried so I wouldn’t know. But there’s also the absence of the cigarette itself, the cigarette between his fingers, the cigarette, if you like, as a prop. A smoker, John, a smoker without a cigarette between his fingers is like a courtesan without her gaudy rings.’
‘Ah, yes. Quite witty.’
‘It is, isn’t it? I wonder if it’s worth noting down. Unless –’
‘Would you like me to make a note of it?’
*
‘Well, finally, no. I fear I’ve used it before. In print, I mean. For the moment, I can’t think precisely where or when, but I seem to – I’m sure – no, no, drop it. Don’t bother.’
‘Whatever you say.’
‘Anyway, when I begin dictating, and even though I’ve had time to do a lot of thinking about this first section, it’s liable to come out all higgledy-piggledy. Despite what you may think, I find I all too often, shall I say, stammer in my thoughts, and this stammering of mine, no matter how provisional, is something I’m going to find hard to live with. Except that there’s nothing I can do about it so there’s no point in complaining. But I do think it best if you just keep typing in what I say, including any minor revisions or refinements I make along the way – and for that matter they won’t always be so very minor. Then, when we’ve finished a section, I can try to pull it all together into a more presentable shape.’
‘That makes sense.’
‘But please don’t imagine that’ll be the end of it. I intend to go over every passage again and again till not a semi-colon remains that I haven’t vetted. You do understand? It’s not easy being a blind perfectionist, but it’s what I plan to be.’
‘Well, Paul, since you put it that way …’
‘Yes? What is it?’
‘Look, this may be of no consequence, but I’ve noticed, well – I just thought –’
‘Will you please say what it is you’re trying to say.’
‘I thought you’d want to know there’s a stain on your tie.’
‘A what?’
‘A coffee stain. You splashed coffee on your tie at breakfast.’
‘No? Oh God, I hate stains, I hate them! Even blind, I hate them! Oh dear, oh dear. Oh well – well, it’s got to come off, obviously. Thank you for letting me know.’
‘I wasn’t sure if –’
‘I didn’t even mention stains to you – you know, when we talked earlier – because I’m usually very – I’m usually very fastidious about my personal manners. I pride myself – Oh dear. Oh well, it can’t be helped. Here.’
‘Oh. Right. Thanks.’
‘Add it to the laundry. Later, when you make us some coffee. Can it be laundered, do you think?’
‘Oh, yes. Probably.’
‘I’m really steamed up about that tie. It’s a Cerruti. As I recall, there were very few like it. With those velvety multicoloured squares.’
‘What?’
‘What?’
‘You said multicoloured squares?’
‘Yes?’
‘Well, no.’
‘What do you mean, no?’
‘I mean there are no squares on it. It’s actually brown, beigey-brown, with darker brown stripes. Diagonal stripes.’
*
‘It’s not the Cerruti?’
‘The label says Stripes.’
‘Stripes? Just Stripes?’
‘Yeah.’
‘But that’s extraordinary. I have no such tie.’
‘It’s the tie you were wearing.’
‘But I tell you it can’t be.’
‘Look, Paul, it’s not important really, is it? After all, think about it. What it means is that you didn’t stain the Cerruti, right? The tie you really liked?’
‘You aren’t listening. I don’t possess a brown striped tie. Repeat, I don’t possess a brown striped tie. All my ties I purchased before I went blind and they’re all laid out in order on a special hanger inside my wardrobe. I ought to know by now which is which. I simply don’t recognize such a tie.’
‘Well, I don’t know what the answer is, but I’m sure it’s nothing to get upset about. Later, if you like, I’ll go over your ties with you and I guarantee you’ll find everything in its place. Just for now, though, shouldn’t we get started?’
‘What? Oh. Yes, yes, of course. Forgive me. I’m so unused to – Yes, forgive me.’
*
‘All right. All right, let’s see. Uh, “I am blind.”’
‘Yes?’
‘No, no, you don’t understand. I want that to be the first sentence of the book.’
‘Oh, I get it. Okay, here we go. “I am blind …” Full stop?’
‘I said it was a sentence, didn’t I? Don’t bother with punctuation at the moment. Just go with your instincts.’
‘Right.’
*
‘Ready when you are, Paul.’
‘And don’t keep prompting me. It’s counterproductive. When I have what I want to say, you’ll be the first to know.’
‘Sorry.’
‘And for Christ’s sake, don’t keep saying you’re sorry all the fucking time! It’s driving me bananas!’
*
‘Ah. Hmph. Now it’s my turn to say sorry. My apologies, John. I’m just a little rattled this morning. That business of the tie. I can’t imagine why it should have upset me as much as it has.’
*
‘I repeat, my apologies.’
‘Accepted.’
‘I did tell you it wouldn’t be easy. I’m not an easy man, I know it.’
‘It’s fine, it’s fine. Don’t worry.’
‘Good. Then let’s proceed. “I am blind. I have no sight. Equally I have no eyes.” Tell me if I’m going too fast.’
‘That’s okay as it is.’
‘“Equally I have no eyes. I am thus a freak. For blindness is freakish, is surreal.”’
‘Sorry. Do you want both “is freakish” and “is surreal”?’
‘Yes, I do: “is freakish”, comma, “is surreal”, full stop. “For blindness is freakish, is surreal.” No, that’s terrible – it’s – oh God, this won’t do.’
*
‘Look, John, forget what I just said. Just go on whether it’s terrible or not. Don’t listen to any of my complaints. Keep typing away whatever I say. Use your judgement.’
‘Right.’
‘“Even more surreal” – I’m dictating now, by the way – “even more surreal than my blindness itself, however, is the fact that, without any eyes to see” – no, “is the fact that, having been dispossessed not only of my sight but of my eyes, I continue to see” – inverted commas around “to see” – no, on second thoughts, only around the word “see” – “I continue to ‘see’ nevertheless. What it is that I see” – naturally, there are no inverted commas this time – “what it is that I see may be ‘nothing’” – inverted commas again.’
‘For “nothing”?’
‘Yes. “What it is that I see may be ‘nothing’” – dash – “I am blind, after all” – dash – “but that ‘nothing’” – keep the inverted commas – “is, paradoxically, by no means indescribable” – no, “is, paradoxically, by no means beyond my powers of description. I see nothing, yet, amazingly, I am able to describe that nothing. The world for me, the world of sightlessness, has become a sombre and coarsely textured plaid” – that’s plaid as in a Scotch plaid – “as devoid of light as I imagine deep space must be and yet somehow, al
so like deep space, penetrable. And, I repeat, I really do see it. There would seem to exist a profound impulse” – no, “an immemorial impulse” – no, wait, “a profound and immemorial impulse” – yes, “a profound and immemorial impulse in that part of my face where my eyes used to be to ‘look out’” – inverted commas around “look out”. Actually, from now on I’ll say “ICs” for inverted commas. I tend to use them a lot in my prose. Where was I?’
‘“There would seem to be a profound and immemorial impulse –”’
‘I think you’ll find I said “would seem to exist a profound and immemorial impulse –”’
‘“There would seem to exist a profound and immemorial impulse in that part of my face where my eyes used to be –”’
‘Comma – “in that part of my face where my eyes used to be” – matching comma – “to ‘look out’ at the world, an impulse that, even when I no longer have eyes” – I fear I’m being repetitive here but we’ll tidy it up later – “even when I no longer have eyes, does not then spread indiscriminately to the rest of my face. It is still with my missing eyes, exclusively with them, that I see nothing” – ICs around “see nothing”. “I still turn my head to greet someone, not merely in unthinking obeisance” – o, b, e, i, s, a, n, c, e – “not merely in unthinking obeisance to the weary conventions of casual social intercourse.” No, let’s say rather “jejune social intercourse”. I don’t want “casual” next to “social”.’
‘Why not?’
‘Too elly.’
‘Too elly?’
‘Too many l’s. “Casual”, “social”. It’s practically a rhyme. I don’t need it.’
‘Okay. Sorry, but how do you spell “jejune”?’
‘J, e, j, u, n, e.’
‘To be honest, I’ve never known what that word means.’
‘You don’t have to know what it means. I’m going on. So – “blah blah blah not merely in unthinking obeisance to the weary conventions of jejune social intercourse but also as though, even eyeless, I remain under the sway of an instinctual and atavistic seeing reflex. In short, I continue to see” – ICs, please – “the same plaid, the same deep space, because as a human being I cannot not see it” – semi-colon – “because seeing is a function of the organism even when the organs themselves have been removed. I have to see –” Better underline “have”.’
‘You mean, italicize it?’
‘Can do you that?’
‘Yes, of course.’
‘On the computer screen?’
‘Absolutely. I’ve done it already.’
‘Good Lord. What a dream machine it must be. I almost wish I could see it. Well, never mind. Read that last bit back to me, please.’
‘The last bit. “I continue to ‘see’ the same plaid, the same deep space, because as a human being I cannot not see it; because seeing is a function of the organism even when the organs themselves have been removed. I have to see –”’
‘“I have to see, whether such is my active intention or not. It is an itch which scratches itself, an itch comparable to that which makes amputees worry over” – no, “fret over” – “fret over their missing limbs. For there is, seemingly, what might be called an etiquette of amputation, an Emily Postish” – that’s “Emily Post” plus “ish”, one word, no hyphen, please – “an Emily Postish list of dos and don’ts where the physically impaired are concerned, mostly don’ts, of course. Thus, one should not sit on an amputee’s bed at the exact spot where his leg would normally be, one should not violate the – the air space of his missing arm, etc.”’
‘Do you want me to write “etc”?’
‘Just the usual abbreviation, please. Are you getting all this?’
‘Think so. But, tell me, we’re still on the same paragraph, right?’
‘Yes. Well, actually, no. Now I think of it, no. New paragraph coming up. I’ll tell you when in future.’
‘Okay. New paragraph. Go on.’
‘Go on! Go on! Easy to say.’
‘Or don’t go on, as the case may be.’
‘“The question” – I’m going on – “the question is more general, however, than that posed by blindness alone. In my own past, whenever an optician or ophthalmologist trained a torch” – no, a – a – a – what are they called, those slim little torches that opticians use?’
‘A pencil torch?’
‘A pencil torch, yes. “In the past –”’
‘“In my own past –”’
‘“In my own past, whenever an optician or ophthalmologist trained a pencil torch on my eye, or whenever I myself chanced to rub too hard and long on my eyeball, I seemed to catch sight of” – dash – “well, what precisely?” Don’t forget the question mark. “Well, what precisely? The retina? The eyeball’s inner surface? Its outer surface? Whichever” – colon – “cratered, cicatrized, lunar” – comma – “as raw” – no, wait, better underline “lunar”.’
‘Right. Is “cicatrized” spelt with an s or a z?’
‘Who cares? That’s the sort of thing we can fix up later. “Whichever: cratered, cicatrized, lunar, as red and rawly textured as the skin of a scrawny day-old nestling, as biliously opaque as a – as a gaudy glass paperweight, the sight of it was deeply disquieting. It reminded me of the earth’s primaeval convulsions in the horrendously vulgar Sacre du Printemps sequence of Walt Disney’s Fantasia” – wait, cut “horrendously vulgar”, this isn’t a work of film criticism – “in the Sacre du Printemps sequence of Walt Disney’s Fantasia. It reminded me, above all, that the eyes are two parts of the body, are things” – italicize – “things, units that can be lost, broken, cracked –”’
‘Shouldn’t that be “lost, cracked, broken”?’
‘Oh. And why?’
‘Just that there appears to be an ascending order of seriousness and “cracked” is surely less serious than “broken”?’
*
‘Quite right, quite right. Well spotted, John. Keep taking the tablets.’
‘We aim to please.’
‘I’m going on: “that can be lost, cracked, broken, that, as I well know, can be disjoined from the head and held, even rolled around, in the palm of the hand. From inside my head” – ICs around “inside” – “from ‘inside’ my head it never occurred to me, unless I happened to think of it” – ICs around “think of it” – “that I had in reality two eyes, not one. From inside I was a human Cyclops” – capital C, semi-colon – “my Cyclops eye, as I perceived it, was both the spectator and screen of the world” – semi-colon – “the world, as I confronted and controlled it – I mean, attempted to control it” – that “I mean” is in the text, incidentally, after a dash – “was in a tangible sense inside the eye” – open brackets – “(remove the eye and you also remove the world)” – close brackets, full stop. “The eye, then, was finally just that glass paperweight which I mention above –” Wait, though, wait. Did I?’
‘Did you what?’
‘Mention a glass paperweight?’
‘Bubbubbubbubbubbubbubbub. Yes, you did: “as biliously opaque as a gaudy glass paperweight”.’
‘Of course I did. I’m going on. “The eye, then, was finally just that gaudy glass paperweight which I mention above, save that, instead of a nostalgic little Christmassy vista” – open brackets – “(soft snow falls if you hold it upside-down)” – close brackets – “what it contained was the world itself.” New paragraph. “But was I really seeing it” – ICs around “seeing”, comma after “it” – “was I really seeing my own eye? How can an eye manage to see itself? See inwardly or, so to speak, self-referentially? Even way back then, I was myopic, even then I saw the external world only with glasses. Yet, miraculously, I could see this lunar surface just as sharply as would anyone possessed of normal vision. What was it, though, that I saw it with” – underline “with”, question mark. “What was it, though, that I saw it with? With, doubtless, that instinctual and atavistic seeing reflex that I have already refer
red to and that ultimately transcends the possession of one’s very organs of sight.”’
*
‘Paul? Would you like to stop for a moment?’
‘Why do you ask?’
‘You seem a bit distracted.’
‘I told you how hard it would be for me to dictate a book. It is. Harder than I dreamed. I’m sweating like a pig. My shirt’s damp at the collar. Why am I sweating so?’
‘Shall we take a short break? Elevenses?’
‘Yes. Yes, John, it might be a good idea to take a break. Though, if we’re to finish within the year, we can’t take too many of them.’
‘True. But will I get us some coffee now?’
‘Did it all appear to make sense to you?’
‘To be honest, Paul, I was too busy taking it down to take it in.’
‘Well, I’m sorry, but I’ve got to know the worst. Read it back to me, will you.’
‘Everything, you mean?’
‘From the top, as cocktail pianists say. Slowly and fluently. And no matter what I think of it, no matter if I die a little on hearing it, I promise not to interrupt. Then we’ll have our break. Deal?’
‘Deal. All right, here we go. “I am blind. I have no sight. Equally –”’
‘Not so fast.’
‘Sorry. Okay. “I am blind. I have no sight. Equally I have no eyes. I am thus a freak. For blindness is freakish, is surreal.”’
‘Oh God, it’s so jerky. So many short sentences. It’s like a leader in the Daily Express.’
‘Paul, you promised not to interrupt.’
‘I’m sorry, it’s just so simplistic.’
‘You’ll have plenty of time later to complicate it.’
‘Hmm. I’ll take that in the spirit in which I trust it was intended. All right, go on. I won’t say another word.’
‘“I am blind. I have no sight. Equally I have no eyes. I am thus a freak. For blindness is freakish, is surreal. Even more surreal than my blindness itself, however, is the fact that, having been dispossessed not only of my sight but of my eyes, I continue to ‘see’ nevertheless. What it is that I see may be ‘nothing’ – I am blind, after all – but that ‘nothing’ is, paradoxically, by no means beyond my powers of description. I see nothing, yet, amazingly, I am able to describe that nothing. The world for me, the world of sightlessness, has become a sombre and coarsely textured plaid as devoid of light as I imagine deep space must be and yet somehow, also like deep space, penetrable. And, I repeat, I really do see it. There would seem to exist a profound and immemorial impulse, in that part of my face where my eyes used to be, to ‘look out’ at the world, an impulse that, even when I no longer have eyes, does not then spread indiscriminately to the rest of my face. It is still with my missing eyes, exclusively with them, that I ‘see nothing’. I still turn my head to greet someone, not merely in unthinking obeisance to the weary conventions of jejune social intercourse but also as though, even eyeless, I remain subject to an instinctual and atavistic seeing reflex. In short, I continue to ‘see’ the same plaid, the same deep space, because as a human being I cannot not see it; because seeing is a function of the organism even when the organs themselves have been removed. I have to see, whether such is my active intention or not. It is an itch which scratches itself, an itch comparable to that which makes amputees fret over their missing limbs. For there is, seemingly, what might be called an etiquette of amputation, an Emily Postish list of dos and don’ts where the physically impaired are concerned, mostly don’ts, of course. Thus, one should not sit on an amputee’s bed at the exact spot where his leg would normally be, one should not violate the air space of his missing arm, etc.
A Closed Book Page 5
