按键盘上方向键 ← 或 → 可快速上下翻页，按键盘上的 Enter 键可回到本书目录页，按键盘上方向键 ↑ 可回到本页顶部！
————未阅读完？加入书签已便下次继续阅读！
the world of men and women。 The hand is my feeler with which I reach
through isolation and darkness and seize every pleasure； every activity
that my fingers encounter。 With the dropping of a little word from
another's hand into mine； a slight flutter of the fingers； began the
intelligence； the joy； the fullness of my life。 Like Job； I feel as if
a hand had made me； fashioned me together round about and moulded my
very soul。
In all my experiences and thoughts I am conscious of a hand。 Whatever
moves me； whatever thrills me； is as a hand that touches me in the dark；
and that touch is my reality。 You might as well say that a sight which
makes you glad； or a blow which brings the stinging tears to your eyes；
is unreal as to say that those impressions are unreal which I have
accumulated by means of touch。 The delicate tremble of a butterfly's
wings in my hand； the soft petals of violets curling in the cool folds
of their leaves or lifting sweetly out of the meadow…grass； the clear；
firm outline of face and limb； the smooth arch of a horse's neck and
the velvety touch of his nose……all these； and a thousand resultant
binations； which take shape in my mind； constitute my world。
Ideas make the world we live in； and impressions furnish ideas。 My world
is built of touch…sensations； devoid of physical colour and sound； but
without colour and sound it breathes and throbs with life。 Every object
is associated in my mind bined in
countless ways； give me a sense of power； of beauty； or of incongruity：
for with my hands I can feel the ic as well as the beautiful in the
outward appearance of things。 Remember that you； dependent on your
sight； do not realize how many things are tangible。 All palpable things
are mobile or rigid； solid or liquid； big or small； warm or cold； and
these qualities are variously modified。 The coolness of a water…lily
rounding into bloom is different from the coolness of an evening wind in
summer； and different again from the coolness of the rain that soaks
into the hearts of growing things and gives them life and body。 The
velvet of the rose is not that of a ripe peach or of a baby's dimpled
cheek。 The hardness of the rock is to the hardness of wood what a man's
deep bass is to a woman's voice when it is low。 What I call beauty I
find in certain binations of all these qualities； and is largely
derived from the flow of curved and straight lines which is over all
things。
〃What does the straight line mean to you？〃 I think you will ask。
It _means_ several things。 It symbolizes duty。 It seems to have the
quality of inexorableness that duty has。 When I have something to do
that must not be set aside； I feel as if I were going forward in a
straight line； bound to arrive somewhere； or go on forever without
swerving to the right or to the left。
That is what it means。 To escape this moralizing you should ask； 〃How
does the straight line feel？〃 It feels； as I suppose it looks；
straight……a dull thought drawn out endlessly。 Eloquence to the touch
resides not in straight lines； but in unstraight lines； or in many
curved and straight lines together。 They appear and disappear； are now
deep； now shallow； now broken off or lengthened or swelling。 They rise
and sink beneath my fingers； they are full of sudden starts and pauses；
and their variety is inexhaustible and wonderful。 So you see I am not
shut out from the region of the beautiful； though my hand cannot
perceive the brilliant colours in the sunset or on the mountain； or
reach into the blue depths of the sky。
Physics tells me that I am well off in a world which； I am told； knows
neither cold nor sound； but is made in terms of size； shape； and
inherent qualities； for at least every object appears to my fingers
standing solidly right side up； and is not an inverted image on the
retina which； I understand； your brain is at infinite though unconscious
labour to set back on its feet。 A tangible object passes plete into
my brain with the warmth of life upon it； and occupies the same place
that it does in space； for； without egotism； the mind is as large as the
universe。 When I think of hills； I think of the upward strength I tread
upon。 When water is the object of my thought； I feel the cool shock of
the plunge and the quick yielding of the waves that crisp and curl and
ripple about my body。 The pleasing changes of rough and smooth； pliant
and rigid； curved and straight in the bark and branches of a tree give
the truth to my hand。 The immovable rock； with its juts and warped
surface； bends beneath my fingers into all manner of grooves and
hollows。 The bulge of a watermelon and the puffed…up rotundities of
squashes that sprout； bud； and ripen in that strange garden planted
somewhere behind my finger…tips are the ludicrous in my tactual memory
and imagination。 My fingers are tickled to delight by the soft ripple
of a baby's laugh； and find amusement in the lusty crow of the barnyard
autocrat。 Once I had a pet rooster that used to perch on my knee and
stretch his neck and crow。 A bird in my hand was then worth two in
the……barnyard。
My fingers cannot； of course； get the impression of a large whole at a
glance； but I feel the parts； and my mind puts them together。 I move
around my house； touching object after object in order； before I can
form an idea of the entire house。 In other people's houses I can touch
only what is shown to me……the chief objects of interest； carvings on the
wall； or a curious architectural feature； exhibited like the family
album。 Therefore a house with which I am not familiar has for me； at
first； no general effect or harmony of detail。 It is not a plete
conception； but a collection of object…impressions which； as they e
to me； are disconnected and isolated。 But my mind is full of
associations； sensations； theories； and with them it constructs the
house。 The process reminds me of the building of Solomon's temple； where
was neither saw； nor hammer； nor any tool heard while the stones were
being laid one upon another。 The silent worker is imagination which
decrees reality out of chaos。
Without imagination what a poor thing my world would be！ My garden would
be a s