by Susan Sontag
Once I even had the pleasure of seeing one of the patients whom I had attended during a bout of influenza, outside the hospital, disporting himself cheerfully at one of the public swimming pools along the river. His appearance was unusual, because he was a cripple. Imagine to yourself a bather whose legs were thinner than his arms, whose neck, around which hung a delicate silver chain with a cross, was thicker than his head. Seated on his enormous neck was a prizefighter’s face: thick short brown hair cut close to his scalp, low fleshy forehead, flat nose, thick lips, wide jaw. From the neck surged great wings of shoulder blades, two enormous convex shields which marked his breasts, two stout trees for upper arms. His skin was smooth, moderately hairy, and deeply tanned. He wore a brief plaid Bikini around his tiny wasted hips, which revealed the diminutive bulge between his thighs that should have been so much larger. His legs were slender poles, in which one could barely distinguish the knees and the ankles. He could bend his left leg but the right was completely stiff, bent inward slightly at the knee and outward at the foot. His feet were no longer than his hands, which were not overlarge; and he had no movement in either ankle.
I was already sitting on a chair at the pool when he came in, propelling himself forward by means of a pair of unpainted wooden canes with black rubber caps. He recognized me, we exchanged greetings, and then he fell forward deftly onto the floor at the edge of the pool. His expression was relaxed, agreeable, often smiling—but it was not the painful ingratiating smile of the popular cripple, the cripple who has won his popularity by being nicer than anyone else in the crowd. He had come with four well-built young men in Bikinis, who proceeded to do handstands, wrestle with each other, dive in the water, take photographs of each other, and play the radio which they turned to the American Army station.
He entered the water by doing a rapid and faultless handstand from a sitting position, balancing firmly for a moment, then springing with his hands to dive into the pool, arms and head down, legs straight in the air. Once in the water, he swam quickly and singlemindedly back and forth across the pool half a dozen times. Then, without any dalliance in the water, he returned to the side, hoisted himself out entirely by means of his powerful arms, picked up his canes, and returned to the place where his companions were lying. After his swim, he sat, with his arms around his bent left leg, looking at his feet and wiggling his toes in time to the music on the radio. I noticed then that the little toe on each foot was thicker and longer than the middle three.
I was fascinated by the sight of my ex-patient, and full of admiration for his good spirits and his physical courage. It was then that I realized an important principle of life, which might be named the principle of the distribution of handicaps. It goes as follows. If you are a cripple, you require two indispensable friends. You need someone to consort with who is more crippled than yourself (to succor and to pity) and someone who is less crippled than yourself (to emulate and to envy). The truly unfortunate cripple is he who has not a friend of each type, shielding him on both sides against the mystery of health.
These are reflections which I believe I would not have been capable of when younger, more egotistical, and more impatient with my fellow men. But all that is changed now. In the end, there is no substitute for the vocation of service. I discover, with relief, that being good prohibits my dallying with the “interesting.” Since I no longer dream, there is little that I find interesting about myself. Only other people interest me and I allow myself the pleasure of helping them.
Since my return to a more active life, I have learned that during those six years my friends believed I had been committed to a mental institution. The story circulated that my brother had testified for my committal, and produced a blueprint of the house I designed for Frau Anders as a map of my aberrations.
I first heard this story from an old school friend, now the prosperous owner of a chain of hotels, on whom I went to pay a congratulatory call when I learned of the impending marriage of his only son. He received me cordially, but with such an air of solicitousness that I could not refrain from questioning him. With some embarrassment and hesitation about mentioning what he thought was a delicate matter, he told me that he’d heard I was ill. I was astonished, and, not understanding him fully, protested, “On the contrary, I’ve never felt better in my life. Didn’t you know I have an exceptionally sturdy constitution?” Then his exact meaning became clear, but fortunately we were spared any prolonged discussion of the matter because his son entered the living room with his fiancée, and the rest of my visit was spent advising the family on the wedding preparations.
The fact that I made the groom and bride a handsome wedding present, a valuable family heirloom which I had in my possession, namely a rare and beautifully executed contemporary painting of the Emperor of the French, may indicate that I bore the father no ill-will for his rather unflattering idea of me. And when I subsequently realized, through timorous allusions to the event and muted congratulations on my recovery, that others of my friends believed the same, I did not feel it important to confirm or deny the story. Yet I would be dishonest if I did not admit that it troubled me. On the one hand, there was the fact that my memory, for the most part excellent, told me differently: I had not been in any institution, but in the house which I had inherited from my father, pursuing my solitude and the resolution of my dreams. On the other hand, as I have already, explained, my memory does fail me on one important point. Moreover there are certain letters and journals which challenge my memory in its entirety. Perhaps it would be best for me to present some excerpts from these and leave the reader to decide for himself.
One notebook contains what I take to be a draft for the present narrative, begun some years ago and then abandoned. From its form alone I judge that it was begun prematurely; how else explain that for the most part the draft is in the third, rather than in the first, person? Certain transformations of the events of my life—I shall not anticipate, since in a moment the reader will see for himself—make me regard the entire document with suspicion. At one time I even doubted that I wrote it. But it is definitely in my handwriting, although occasional blottings and crossings out of the words indicate that I wrote in a condition of some strain.
Perhaps, in fact, it is just a novel. The list of possible titles alone takes up several pages, I notice—which indicates all the devotion of a literary ambition. Among the titles considered are: My Curious Dreams, Poor Hippolyte, A Puppet’s Manual, In My Father’s House, A Reply to the Bather, Welcome Home, The Confessions of a Self-Addicted Man, Notes of a Dreamer on His Craft, and—in a rare touch of what I hope is humor, but may be only self-consciousness—Don’t Believe Everything You Read. There are also several pages of notes and admonitions to the writer, to the effect that the narrative should make quite clear the separation of the hero’s dreams from his waking life, and draw the moral therefrom.
On second thought, I shall give only the synopsis of this projected narrative:
Ch. 1. The late birth and affectionate naming of Hippolyte. He is most comfortably born. His mother does not die until he is five. Little happens in his childhood, except church and a war and candy and school and the maid. He leaves home to go to the university.
Ch. 2. He, too, wants an honest career. Why not? But gradually he abandons his studies, and gives himself to apathy and to dreams.
Ch. 3. Life passes idly and without incident. Until, one day, he is kidnapped and locked up. The kidnappers treat him well, except for occasional bullying on the part of the athletic chief guard. He is rejected by a woman in white.
Ch. 4. Ransomed by his father, he returns to the city. Good resolutions, and the non-performance of them. He sinks into debauchery, and frequents unconventional parties. How he dreams!
Ch. 5. He seeks religious counsel, but does not find a priest to absolve him. Before entering the church, he watches a wrestling match.
Ch. 6. Hippolyte tries the ministrations of a psychiatrist, but not for long. Luckily, when he is at his wit
s’ end, an elderly millionaire sends him on a trip. But no sooner does he leave his patron’s house than he loses his way.
Ch. 7. He studies the piano and betrays a fellow student. He falls from a tree.
Ch. 8. Recovering from his injuries, he submits to an operation. The operation is successful; he returns home, where his father advises him to marry.
Ch. 9. He does not marry. A visit with some acrobats. They try to engage him to become one of them.
Ch. 10. He becomes a performer. The life of puppets and the behavior of bears. In this limited arena he finds peace. Disabled and sensitive, Hippolyte drones on.
You will observe that this effort to describe my dreams—dare I consider it an autobiographical novel?—has omitted my life; or perhaps it is the other way around. Somewhat more successful from the point of view of completeness, but still rather curious in my present estimation is another autobiographical sketch—in the form of a letter—which I found also among the papers of that period. The difficulty of assembling my dreams and my waking life in some order is better solved, but at a certain price, as the reader will see. I also have some doubts about the plausibility of the letter form itself. After all, to whom could it be addressed?
The letter is undated, and without salutation. It begins:
“Although I am aware of the unusual step I am taking, I wish to petition for a re-examination of my case. I can assure you that I do not take this grave step lightly, but have devoted several years to thinking about it before I was entirely convinced that it was within my rights.
“Aware as I am that you must have all the relevant documents at your disposal, I would still like to take the liberty of giving a brief résume of my life and career, and what I consider the perhaps excessive consequences which I have incurred.
“My given name, Hippolyte, you will recall, as well as my unfortunate nickname, “the bear.” On my dossier you will find when and where I was born, the youngest of three children. My father was a prosperous manufacturer. Nothing of special import marks my childhood, except the early death of my mother. I was raised and schooled in the city where I was born, and then went to live in the capital to study at the university.
“I had every hope of making an honest career for myself in one of the established professions. But a deplorable apathy overtook me, and I gradually abandoned my studies. My mind, vacant of useful occupation, countered by proposing to me a series of singularly repetitive dreams, in which I imagined myself mingling in a circle of strange and disreputable people, writers and artists, presided over by a rich middle-aged woman of foreign birth.
“For a while my life passed without incident (except for my dreams) in this state of uselessness and indecision, until, one day, incredible as it may seem, I was kidnapped and incarcerated for some time. How unfortunate I then deemed myself to be the son of a rich father!
“The kidnappers’ retreat was located near a bathing resort by the sea. I cannot complain of any ill-treatment on the part of my captors, beyond a certain amount of bullying. The chief guard was lame, but this did not establish any special bond of friendship between us. While in the house of the criminals, I fell in love with the mistress of the lame guard. She rejected me cruelly, thus permanently marring my still very impressionable erotic sensibility.
“After a short time, I was ransomed by my father, who bitterly reproached me for my idle life, and returned to the city. I wished more than ever to resume a normal course of activity, but I continued to be plagued by my dreams. A persistent figure in these dreams was an eccentric writer, of perverse and insincere sexual tastes, in whom I confided. Despite my resolutions, I did not return to the university. I sank into debauchery, and frequented unconventional parties, and at one of them almost raped my hostess in front of the guests. As if in punishment for my daring, my dreams brought these wishes fully into view. I began dreaming again about the foreign woman. I dreamed that I seduced her, and shamefully abused her sexually.
“In further dreams, however, I made an effort to break off with her. This encouraged me to think that there was some hope for me, and that I was not totally devoid of good feelings. I sought religious counsel, and was publicly shamed in a church where my sins had become known to the populace. Perhaps I did not make a confession in the proper spirit, for I was very much alarmed and upset when, upon entering the church I saw one of my kidnappers, the lame man, lurking in the courtyard. He did not menace me, but I was nonetheless troubled.
“My shaming in the church only hardened my heart, as it was revealed in my dreams, for the dreams about the writer began again. I dreamed that I accompanied him on his nightly excursions into perversion and debauchery.
“I will admit that some of my judgments upon myself are retrospective; I have only learned in later years to look upon my dreams as important. At the time they occurred, I did not pay much attention to them. What concerned me was the real life I was leading. But since I have been instructed by you how the acts that are committed in dreams are even more weighty than those committed in our waking lives (because our dreams are free, whereas in our daily lives we act under compulsion; our waking lives proceed by the art of compromise, but our dreams dare all) I now estimate my dreams at their true value and I concur in the judgment which you have placed upon them. Please do not think that in raising a question about the severity of your sentence, I challenge the importance which you place upon my disreputable dreams.
“To continue: Not content with this defiance of all established laws, I confess that in my dreams, I persuaded the foreign woman to come away with me. I abducted her from the bosom of her family and took her to a city whose natives do not have the same scruples and tastes as civilized people. There I abandoned her.
“Can it be that these dreams pursued me because of my lack of occupation? I was extremely distraught. I even tried the ministrations of a psychiatrist, but I did not continue long with him. Luckily, when I was at my wits’ end, an elderly millionaire took me under his patronage, and gave me enough money to travel and see the world.
“But even then, my dreams did not give me a respite but continued to offer me unwholesome moral alternatives, now in the form of the teachings of a savant of ancient religions. In my dreams the learned man persuaded me that the moral codes of the world were mere inhibitions, and that I belonged to a secret circle of the elect and emancipated. In keeping with these strange persuasions of my dreams, I imagined myself as part of the entourage of a wicked nobleman who committed unspeakable crimes, for which he was exonerated, even admired.
“Further dreams showed me about to seduce the daughter of the foreign woman of my earlier dreams, but refraining through a great effort of self-control. As a diversion from my troubling thoughts, I studied the piano, in which I excelled. But this, too, I had to give up; this musical study only gave further stimulus to my desire for unlimited and irresponsible self-expression. Thus, when one of my fellow students of the piano was ill, and being persecuted by our teacher, I refused to aid him.
“I then dreamed that I murdered the foreign woman, but as so often happens in dreams, my act was ineffectual. She pursued me in a series of horrifying erotic nightmares.
“Shortly after, my dreams took a more constructive turn. I dreamt that I had built a house to shelter the foreign woman whom I had criminally abused. This gave me a clue, and I determined to follow the good intentions of my dreams even as I unwittingly reflected their evil acts. Although by now past the age when it is becoming or seemly to be a student, I enrolled again in the university in the Faculty of Architecture. I thought I had shaken off the thoughts which were causing me trouble with my own conscience and with the authorities, but shortly after I began to prosecute these good resolutions I was called up before the tribunal, and narrowly avoided being sentenced to death.
“After this painful experience I returned to my native town, where my father advised me to marry. Unfortunately, I did not take his advice. Perhaps this was my worst mistake, for my dreams, as if in
mockery, showed me many images of a blissful marriage with a young girl of good family and quiet mind. Had I ever married such a person, I might well have found happiness and led a useful life.
“I have tried, however, to show my willingness to serve society by a variety of endeavors, including administrative work in a penitentiary, and brief service in the army during the Second World War as a non-combatant artillery specialist.
“I therefore regard my subsequent re-imprisonment as an act of excessive severity, and press the authorities to reconsider their judgment. For the life of my dreams I am not ultimately responsible. My dreams were foisted upon me, and anyone can see that the selfish acts I commit in my dreams do not accord with the willing and submissive character I display in my waking life.
“The conditions in which I live in this institution, the dampness of the cellar, the fact that my bed is as hard as if it were made of bricks, that my only exercise is in the park where children and their nurses mock when they see me chained to the guard, seem decidedly excessive. The guard will inform you that I obey all his orders, even when I do not understand them.
“In the event that a pardon can be secured, or at least a parole, I venture to promise that I will dream no further.
“Yours respectfully, etc.”
Let me say at once that this plaintive letter seems to me unquestionable proof of a certain period of delusion, during which my dreams became my real life and my real life the dreams. The reader knows that I do not now subscribe to the version of my life presented in the letter. But whatever the true version of my experiences, it appears that this letter of appeal won me a certain amount of peace. Or, if the letter is the true account, a pardon from my sentence. For I do not dream now.
The ancient philosophers were right in recommending the benefits of age. It is comfortable to be old. One has less to suffer, more to think about. For some, this peace results from the silencing of the sexual urge. For me, peace has come through the silencing of the involuntary impulses of my dreams. The painful difference between my dreams and waking life has not been dissolved, for I can still remember the difference and report it. But age has appeased and softened it. Without a great space of future before me, I can look back. And now the past as a whole, dreams and waking life alike, presents itself to me as fantasy.