What One Sees Without Eyes – Part Two
Excerpted from Against the Pollution of the I: On the Gifts of Blindness, the Power of Poetry, and the Urgency of Awareness.
by Jacques Lusseyran
Since becoming blind, I have paid more attention to a thousand things, and that this has allowed me to discover all sorts of aspects of the world that I probably would never have known otherwise. And these aspects are very comforting. They give life to everything. I’d like to give you some examples.
First of all, I perceived that sounds were not produced just by vibrating objects, but more generally, by all objects which make up our world, even those that we deem immobile or lifeless.
I observed, for example, that the wall which is here behind me also produces a sound. I say: “produces a sound.”
Is it really a sound that I perceive in placing my attention on the wall? I’m not completely certain. But it is, if you wish, a shaking, something very light, but something repeated endlessly. I would say that it repeats as long as the wall stays behind me, exerting some force on my body.
Thus, the most apparently lifeless objects carry with them a potential for life as great as those which whirl and vibrate a lot — or are the most human.
What difference is there between a human voice and a tree’s voice? Very slight, unless you have acquired the habit of understanding the human voice more rapidly than a tree’s voice. But both are one voice.
I remember this experience. I’ve retold it often to my friends, it’s so pleasant.
I discovered as a child that different species of trees don’t have the same presence. In particular, I did not experience the same sensations when I passed along a street shaded by an oak tree that I did going down one shaded by a fir tree or an acacia.
During vacations in the country, when I had made friends with the landscape during the long weeks, I could distinguish the tree under which I passed by its volume, its configuration, the distinct sound of its shadow.
That’s only one detail. But there are a number of details like that. And that’s why, when I found myself in the presence of an unknown mountainous landscape, when I was still hundreds of feet or even a few miles away from the neighboring summits, I could give a general indication of their silhouettes! It was as if I saw them: I saw far beyond me the great outlines and shapes of the mountains. How did I know what they looked like? I knew absolutely nothing about them. Nonetheless they appeared to me — or, more precisely, I verified them within myself, exactly as I verified the presence of light.
Once again: I did not have to leave my armchair, I did not have to move, because things were inside me.
I began to verify that most of the particular sensations that I experienced and that I attributed just now to hearing, touch, or smell, always related essentially to the same sort of sensation.
I’m about to give it a name, which may not be a very good idea: a sensation of pressure.
The universe had weight and was always pressing against me. Which is to say that it presses equally against you.
All the objects in the universe seem to be masses of energy located somewhere, and it doesn’t matter much where, except on the level of mechanics pure and simple: physical relationships.
Therefore, these masses of energy exist somewhere and draw near or far, making an impression on us, the whole affair being one of perception for us.
I mention again the example of the walls of this room.
The four walls of this room lean against me. Their life consists — to the extent that their life concerns me — of leaning on me from a certain distance.
Or preferably: I also lean on them. Yes, I lean on them by the simple fact, for example, that I think about them.
I think about the four walls of this room, simultaneously of these four walls. It is as if one of my hands were propped up against that wall on the right, and the other against the wall to the left, and two more against those in front of or behind me. It is as precise as that.
And it still seems that the walls exist as a point of encounter between these two pressures: that coming from them and that coming from me. It seems almost that the walls are the conjunction, the union of these two forces, their equilibrium; I almost want to say their reconciliation.
I think that you feel to some extent that these remarks of mine are, if not surprising, at least difficult to express. Well, that’s because we have the habit — and a very bad habit — of believing things are outside of our control, that they either come to us or don’t, that they are stubborn as mules, that we will never be able to make them do what we want. Translation: that we are poor unfortunates, creatures forgotten by the universe, and that we — free, generous, and heroic beings — cannot obtain the responses from things which we feel are our due.
That’s true: we are in a battle against things. But it’s not the things’ fault. It would be so simple to catch them where they live and not somewhere else — and that place where they live is not outside.
by Jacques Lusseyran
First of all, I perceived that sounds were not produced just by vibrating objects, but more generally, by all objects which make up our world, even those that we deem immobile or lifeless.
I observed, for example, that the wall which is here behind me also produces a sound. I say: “produces a sound.”
Is it really a sound that I perceive in placing my attention on the wall? I’m not completely certain. But it is, if you wish, a shaking, something very light, but something repeated endlessly. I would say that it repeats as long as the wall stays behind me, exerting some force on my body.
Thus, the most apparently lifeless objects carry with them a potential for life as great as those which whirl and vibrate a lot — or are the most human.
What difference is there between a human voice and a tree’s voice? Very slight, unless you have acquired the habit of understanding the human voice more rapidly than a tree’s voice. But both are one voice.
I remember this experience. I’ve retold it often to my friends, it’s so pleasant.
I discovered as a child that different species of trees don’t have the same presence. In particular, I did not experience the same sensations when I passed along a street shaded by an oak tree that I did going down one shaded by a fir tree or an acacia.
During vacations in the country, when I had made friends with the landscape during the long weeks, I could distinguish the tree under which I passed by its volume, its configuration, the distinct sound of its shadow.
That’s only one detail. But there are a number of details like that. And that’s why, when I found myself in the presence of an unknown mountainous landscape, when I was still hundreds of feet or even a few miles away from the neighboring summits, I could give a general indication of their silhouettes! It was as if I saw them: I saw far beyond me the great outlines and shapes of the mountains. How did I know what they looked like? I knew absolutely nothing about them. Nonetheless they appeared to me — or, more precisely, I verified them within myself, exactly as I verified the presence of light.
Once again: I did not have to leave my armchair, I did not have to move, because things were inside me.
I began to verify that most of the particular sensations that I experienced and that I attributed just now to hearing, touch, or smell, always related essentially to the same sort of sensation.
I’m about to give it a name, which may not be a very good idea: a sensation of pressure.
The universe had weight and was always pressing against me. Which is to say that it presses equally against you.
All the objects in the universe seem to be masses of energy located somewhere, and it doesn’t matter much where, except on the level of mechanics pure and simple: physical relationships.
Therefore, these masses of energy exist somewhere and draw near or far, making an impression on us, the whole affair being one of perception for us.
I mention again the example of the walls of this room.
The four walls of this room lean against me. Their life consists — to the extent that their life concerns me — of leaning on me from a certain distance.
Or preferably: I also lean on them. Yes, I lean on them by the simple fact, for example, that I think about them.
I think about the four walls of this room, simultaneously of these four walls. It is as if one of my hands were propped up against that wall on the right, and the other against the wall to the left, and two more against those in front of or behind me. It is as precise as that.
And it still seems that the walls exist as a point of encounter between these two pressures: that coming from them and that coming from me. It seems almost that the walls are the conjunction, the union of these two forces, their equilibrium; I almost want to say their reconciliation.
I think that you feel to some extent that these remarks of mine are, if not surprising, at least difficult to express. Well, that’s because we have the habit — and a very bad habit — of believing things are outside of our control, that they either come to us or don’t, that they are stubborn as mules, that we will never be able to make them do what we want. Translation: that we are poor unfortunates, creatures forgotten by the universe, and that we — free, generous, and heroic beings — cannot obtain the responses from things which we feel are our due.
That’s true: we are in a battle against things. But it’s not the things’ fault. It would be so simple to catch them where they live and not somewhere else — and that place where they live is not outside.