《the world i live in-海伦·凯勒自传(英文版)》海伦·凯勒自传(英文版)-第2章

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