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colour to me。 The sun does not shine for my physical eyes； nor does the
lightning flash； nor do the trees turn green in the spring； but they
have not therefore ceased to exist； any more than the landscape is
annihilated when you turn your back on it。
I understand how scarlet can differ from crimson because I know that the
smell of an orange is not the smell of a grape…fruit。 I can also
conceive that colours have shades； and guess what shades are。 In smell
and taste there are varieties not broad enough to be fundamental； so I
call them shades。 There are half a dozen roses near me。 They all have
the unmistakable rose scent； yet my nose tells me that they are not the
same。 The American Beauty is distinct from the Jacqueminot and La
France。 Odours in certain grasses fade as really to my sense as certain
colours do to yours in the sun。 The freshness of a flower in my hand is
analogous to the freshness I taste in an apple newly picked。 I make use
of analogies like these to enlarge my conceptions of colours。 Some
analogies which I draw between qualities in surface and vibration； taste
and smell； are drawn by others between sight； hearing； and touch。 This
fact encourages me to persevere； to try and bridge the gap between the
eye and the hand。
Certainly I get far enough to sympathize with the delight that my kind
feel in beauty they see and harmony they hear。 This bond between
humanity and me is worth keeping； even if the idea on which I base it
prove erroneous。
Sweet； beautiful vibrations exist for my touch； even though they travel
through other substances than air to reach me。 So I imagine sweet；
delightful sounds； and the artistic arrangement of them which is called
music； and I remember that they travel through the air to the ear；
conveying impressions somewhat like mine。 I also know what tones are；
since they are perceptible tactually in a voice。 Now； heat varies
greatly in the sun； in the fire； in hands； and in the fur of animals；
indeed； there is such a thing for me as a cold sun。 So I think of the
varieties of light that touch the eye； cold and warm； vivid and dim；
soft and glaring； but always light； and I imagine their passage through
the air to an extensive sense； instead of to a narrow one like touch。
From the experience I have had with voices I guess how the eye
distinguishes shades in the midst of light。 While I read the lips of a
woman whose voice is soprano； I note a low tone or a glad tone in the
midst of a high； flowing voice。 When I feel my cheeks hot； I know that I
am red。 I have talked so much and read so much about colours that
through no will of my own I attach meanings to them； just as all people
attach certain meanings to abstract terms like hope； idealism；
monotheism； intellect； which cannot be represented truly by visible
objects； but which are understood from analogies between immaterial
concepts and the ideas they awaken of external things。 The force of
association drives me to say that white is exalted and pure； green is
exuberant； red suggests love or shame or strength。 Without the colour or
its equivalent； life to me would be dark； barren； a vast blackness。
Thus through an inner law of pleteness my thoughts are not permitted
to remain colourless。 It strains my mind to separate colour and sound
from objects。 Since my education began I have always had things
described to me with their colours and sounds by one with keen senses
and a fine feeling for the significant。 Therefore I habitually think of
things as coloured and resonant。 Habit accounts for part。 The soul sense
accounts for another part。 The brain with its five…sensed construction
asserts its right and accounts for the rest。 Inclusive of all； the unity
of the world demands that colour be kept in it； whether I have
cognizance of it or not。 Rather than be shut out； I take part in it by
discussing it； imagining it； happy in the happiness of those near me
who gaze at the lovely hues of the sunset or the rainbow。
My hand has its share in this multiple knowledge； but it must never be
forgotten that with the fingers I see only a very small portion of a
surface； and that I must pass my hand continually over it before my
touch grasps the whole。 It is still more important； however； to remember
that my imagination is not tethered to certain points； locations； and
distances。 It puts all the parts together simultaneously as if it saw or
knew instead of feeling them。 Though I feel only a small part of my
horse at a time；……my horse is nervous and does not submit to manual
explorations；……yet； because I have many times felt hock； nose； hoof and
mane； I can see the steeds of Phoebus Apollo coursing the heavens。
With such a power active it is impossible that my thought should be
vague； indistinct。 It must needs be potent； definite。 This is really a
corollary of the philosophical truth that the real world exists only for
the mind。 That is to say； I can never touch the world in its entirety；
indeed； I touch less of it than the portion that others see or hear。 But
all creatures； all objects； pass into my brain entire； and occupy the
same extent there that they do in material space。 I declare that for me
branched thoughts； instead of pines； wave； sway； rustle； make musical
the ridges of mountains rising summit upon summit。 Mention a rose too
far away for me to smell it。 Straightway a scent steals into my
nostril； a form presses against my palm in all its dilating softness；
with rounded petals； slightly curled edges； curving stem； leaves
drooping。 When I would fain view the world as a whole； it rushes into
vision……man； beast； bird； reptile； fly； sky； ocean； mountains； plain；
rock； pebble。 The warmth of life； the reality of creation is over
all……the throb of human hands； glossiness of fur； lithe windings of long
bodies； poignant buzzing of insects； the ruggedness of the steeps as I
climb them； the liquid mobility and boom of waves upon the rocks。
Strange to say； try as I may； I cannot force my touch to pervade this
universe in all directions。 The moment I try； the whole vanishes； only
small objects or narrow portions of a surface； mere touch…signs； a chaos
of things scattered at random； remain。 No thrill； no delight is excited
thereby。 Restore to the artistic； prehensive internal sense its
rightful domain； and you give me joy which best proves the reality。
BEFORE THE SOUL DAWN
XI
BEFORE THE SOUL DAWN
BEFORE my teacher came to me； I did not know that I am。 I lived in a
world that was a no…world。 I cannot hope to describe adequately that
unconscious； yet conscious time of nothingness。 I did not know that I
knew aught； or that I lived or acted or desired。 I had neither will nor
intellect。 I was carried along to objects and acts by a certain blind
natural impetus。 I had a mind which caused me to feel anger；
satisfaction； desire。 These two facts led those about me to suppose
that I willed and thought。 I can remember all this； not because I knew
that it was so； but because I have tactual memory。 It enables me to
remember that I never contracted my forehead in the act of thinking。 I
never viewed anything beforehand or chose it。 I also recall tactually
the fact that never in a start of the body or a heart…beat did I feel
that I loved or cared for anything。 My inner life； then； was a blank
without past； present； or future； without hope or anticipation； without
wonder or joy or faith。
It was not night……it was not day。
。 。 。 。 。
But vacancy absorbing space；
And fixedness； without a place；
There were no stars……no earth……no time……
No check……no change……no good……no crime。
My dormant being had no idea of God or immortality； no fear of death。
I remember； also through touch； that I had a power of association。 I
felt tactual jars like the stamp of a foot； the opening of a window or
its closing； the slam of a door。 After repeatedly smelling rain and
feeling the disfort of wetness； I acted like those about me： I ran to
shut the window。 But that was not thought in any sense。 It was the same
kind of association that makes animals take shelter from the