The Sense of Touch

THE SENSE OF TOUCH
IN SCHOOL Molly had been asked which of the following characteristics she would prefer: being blind or being deaf. (Most of the kids her age had replied to the survey that they would rather be deaf–-a world void of sight seemed intolerably horrible, they’d said.) But Molly said that the question was irrelevant--trivial, even. She said that to her the question made no sense whatsoever. (She suspected that the survey might even have been concocted by an alien race of villains to instill fear into the hearts and minds of small children.) Molly’s greatest fear, she said, was to lose the use of her hands. Sight and sound, she said, were ways to experience the outside world. The sense of touch–-the use of her hands-–was the way Molly experienced the inner world--her own inner world–-her own body–-her own being. For without the use of her hands and fingers, how would she be able to scratch the many, profound itches she experienced each day of her life? Or pick her nose and ears the way they needed to be picked? Or remove the sleep from her eyes every morning? (There were little, tiny crystals that lined her eyelids every morning she woke up that only she knew about.) No one else could do these things for her. No one else knew how to touch her in just the right way. These were the important things in Molly’s world. She’d much rather be blind and deaf–-or even dead-–than to lose the necessity of touch.
THE SENSE OF TOUCH
IN SCHOOL Molly had been asked which of the following characteristics she would prefer: being blind or being deaf. (Most of the kids her age had replied to the survey that they would rather be deaf–-a world void of sight seemed intolerably horrible, they’d said.) But Molly said that the question was irrelevant--trivial, even. She said that to her the question made no sense whatsoever. (She suspected that the survey might even have been concocted by an alien race of villains to instill fear into the hearts and minds of small children.) Molly’s greatest fear, she said, was to lose the use of her hands. Sight and sound, she said, were ways to experience the outside world. The sense of touch–-the use of her hands-–was the way Molly experienced the inner world--her own inner world–-her own body–-her own being. For without the use of her hands and fingers, how would she be able to scratch the many, profound itches she experienced each day of her life? Or pick her nose and ears the way they needed to be picked? Or remove the sleep from her eyes every morning? (There were little, tiny crystals that lined her eyelids every morning she woke up that only she knew about.) No one else could do these things for her. No one else knew how to touch her in just the right way. These were the important things in Molly’s world. She’d much rather be blind and deaf–-or even dead-–than to lose the necessity of touch.