Notes on Blindness

by Hull, John;

  It is so easy and normal for people to assume that your head is what you use to see with. If you met a creature from Mars, it would not take you long to work out that it was seeing you with a particular feeler, which was in your direction, or that it was seeing you through its bottom, which was always pointed towards you whichever way you moved. When sighted people approach a blind person, beginning with the natural expectation that they are dealing with a fellow creature, the implications of the fact that this person is actually ‘seeing’ through his white cane are difficult to absorb. Sometimes when I was being led by a sighted person, he or she would lift up my arm, so that my cane did not quite reach the ground. I have managed to avoid this problem by using a longer cane. It is more common for people to guide me by grabbing the cane itself, and pointing to things with it, tapping and saying, ‘There’.

  People tend to stab at approaching steps with the white cane. I point out gently that, unless I myself am holding the cane, I cannot receive from it the information which I need. ‘Please let go of the cane’, I say, ‘just let me hold your arm.’

  It is natural for people to regard the white cane as a sort of walking stick. It is looked upon as something which gives support. It is not immediately thought of as an instrument of sense perception, as a way of gathering information about the world.

  26 September

  Last night, walking home, I had just left the University gates and was about to round the corner into Bristol Road itself, when I was greeted by a man who spoke in a Middle Eastern accent.

  ‘Stop,’ he said. ‘There is a car on the footpath.’

  ‘Thank you,’ I said. ‘Is it parked there?’

  ‘No, no,’ he replied, ‘there’s been an accident. My brother is badly ill. Badly hurt. In his car.’

  ‘And you,’ I asked, ‘are you hurt?’

  ‘No,’ said my friend. ‘This thing has never happened to me because I always look after people like you.’

  ‘Well,’ I said, ‘is your brother badly hurt?’

  ‘No. He’ll be all right. Let me take you across the road.’

  ‘When did this happen?’

  ‘Just now. Just now. I am thanking God that it’s no worse. That I am all right. Now I will see you across the road.’

  He not only took me to the pedestrian lights, he insisted on escorting me, carefully and gently, over the road itself to the far side. He deposited me firmly against the railings, wished me good luck and God’s blessing and went back to join his shaken or injured brother in the car which had just mounted the footpath.

  He seemed to have greeted my arrival, around the corner just at that moment, as a sort of signal from Heaven. It was a warning to him. These things had never happened to him because he always looked after people like me. I was a providential note, sounding in his conscience. I appeared around the corner with my white cane, just as his brother’s car was coming to rest on the pavement.

  6 October

  I dreamt that I was in a religious house, some kind of retreat centre. It was high in the mountains. Large windows opened upon many waterfalls, rivers and seas. We went even higher up, into a kind of elevated extension of the centre, emerging into a chapel. It was very lofty, very peaceful. It was beautifully laid out, equipped with study centres, little rooms for discussion groups and the chapel itself had a huge, plate-glass window which opened out upon a majestic waterfall. This towered over the whole place. Looking up, one could see the great bank of water shooting over from the top. The water was reddish brown, as if there had been a flood making it brown with silt. Although it was in full spate, it was not threatening, but was beautiful and sublime. The steady, drumming cascade was peaceful. The place was full of an atmosphere of serenity and worship. Marilyn and I discussed the possibility of spending a longer time there, or even living there. We went for a walk beside the sea. Great brown waves were crashing down into a sort of trough which had been dug beside the sea-wall, along the promenade. Although the mighty waves pounded upon this, they were controlled by falling into this huge moat, and were broken up and washed away. You could come quite close to the edge of the falling breakers without any danger.

  The atmosphere of this dream was peaceful and refreshing. I awoke with a sense of having received a revelation, of having been in an awe-inspiring presence. Could this dream be a foil to the ominous one about the sinking vessel? There, the waters were sullen and heavy. Here, although no less powerful, they are cascading with movement, energy and control. In one dream I am being submerged. In the other, I am being elevated and renewed. I feel that these are big dreams.

  27 October

  My peace of mind is disturbed by a sort of daydream in which I go home one day to find that Thomas is enshrouded in an inky-black cloud. This completely surrounds him. He looks like a little, sooty pillar of smoke. Everywhere he goes, this cloud goes with him. He moves about the house as if he were this little pillar of smoke. I hear his voice coming out, and when I put my hand into the cloud, I can feel his face, his body, his hair. He is there all right. I can feel his jumper, tell what he is wearing. When I withdraw my hand, there is nothing. His voice, and the noises of everything that he is doing come out of the smoke.

  Now I notice that Lizzie is the same. She is a smaller pillar of smoke. When they are sitting next to each other, the two black patches merge. I can hear the clinks and the movement of the toys with which they are playing. But to really tell what they are doing, I have to stretch my hand into the blackness. I imagine myself blowing at it, trying to puff it away, but nothing will shift it.

  Coming home on a later day Marilyn is also enclosed within a black cloud. I am horrified. I have to reach my hand into the cloud to see if she’s had her hair done, whether she is wearing earrings. Then friends arrive. I discover to my surprise that they can see through these black clouds. The black clouds are in me. It is not the children who are under some mysterious curse but myself.

  Walking home from work on a later evening, I find that the whole house is surrounded by a black cloud. I go in, through the door. There is a murky blackness inside. Nothing will dissipate it. It does not seem to make any difference whether the lights are on or not. Everything in the house is engulfed by it, but only to me, not to anyone else. Next day, the whole world has been immersed by the cloud.

  This fantasy troubles me. I have been thinking to myself that I am not a blind person, but a sighted person who cannot see. In this fantasy I have to realise that the blindness is inside me. The black cloud is in my brain. It surrounds my consciousness.

  22 November

  Thomas and I were playing with a little plastic turtle, about three inches in diameter. He slid it behind my glasses, covering my left eye and said, in a teasing voice, ‘Now Daddy can’t see with that eye. Daddy can only see with that eye’, pointing to the right eye. He then removed the turtle from my left eye, laughed and remarked, ‘Now Daddy can see again’.

  In all of our human relationships, there is a natural assumption of reciprocity. I speak and I expect you to speak. I extend my hand and I expect you to extend your hand. I smile, I expect you to return my smile. So it is with sight. I see you, I expect that you see me.

  Marilyn has often remarked that I tend to play with the children in a dark room, having forgotten to turn the lights on. We are often amused by the fact that the children accept this without comment, as if it were perfectly normal. Last Monday night I took Thomas upstairs into my study intending to listen to a cassette together. We went into the room, I closed the door. The curtains were drawn and it was, in any case, pitch dark outside. I made no comment nor did Thomas. He sat down on my knee, we got out the cassettes and I put one or two on the deck in order to locate the track I wanted. Having found it, I suggested to Thomas that he should find the corresponding pictures in the book which went with the cassette. He got down, went across towards the shelf where the books are kept, then hesitated, moved towards the light switch by the door, and said, ‘Thomas wants the light. Thomas can’
t see without the light.’

  It occurred to me afterwards that the implications of this are that Thomas thinks I can see in the dark. He can’t see without the lights on; I can see whether it’s light or dark.

  I do not suppose that he has actually formed this thought in his mind as a sentence, that I can see in the dark, but it may well be the taken-for-granted belief which is the presupposition of his behaviour with me. He is, after all, perfectly used to the idea that adults can do things which he cannot do. I, as Daddy, can lift things which are too heavy for him. It would seem only natural that I, as Daddy, can see in conditions where he cannot see. After all, it might be said that I behave exactly as if I really can see in the dark. I never ask to have the light put on, and never bother about whether it is on or not.

  How, then, does Thomas construe his relationship with me? He would assume reciprocity. As he is to me so I am to him. He would also assume my superiority. Anything he can do I can do better.

  Imogen, who is now about ten and a half years old, seems to have forgotten that so recently I was able to see. She made a reference to the fact that when I was a little boy I could see. She seemed surprised when Marilyn and I laughed and corrected her. Marilyn reminded her that I could see when I was a grown man. Only a few days ago Imogen and I were reminiscing about something we had done together which clearly involved me being able to see.

  30 November

  I dreamt that I was a member of a small orchestra. I was playing the recorder. We were about to play, perhaps to rehearse, or even to perform a Christmas song, carol or hymn composed by Simon Rattle, the conductor of the City of Birmingham Symphony Orchestra. We were gathering on the stage. Our music stands were in front of us. I was in a terrible state because I could not read the music. I was blind. I had no idea what I should play. There was a part for the solo recorder, and I was very nervous about what I would do when it came to this part. I got as far as telling somebody else in the orchestra about my problem. We were just beginning to discuss what I would do, whether I would be able to bluff my way through, when the dream ended.

  The inconsistencies in this dream are very noticeable. Although I could not make anything out at all of the music itself, I did have a very distinct visual impression of the photocopied, handwritten transcript of the words, the lyrics which somebody was to sing. I could even read some of the words. The dream itself was very visual, and later in the same night I had another dream, in which I was getting Thomas ready for an outing. I was combing his hair, and had the most vivid impression of his features. I saw his face with the utmost clarity.

  In spite of its inconsistencies, this musical dream marks an important step. For the first time I am in a situation where blindness is recognised to be the cause of a crisis. In the dream, I knew it was because of my blindness. It was a social situation, it was a question of competence, the fear was of a public disgrace and of letting one’s colleagues down, and I had a terrible panicky feeling of helplessness. Is this a phallic dream?

  Let us distinguish between the way that blindness affects the process of dreaming, and the way it affects the contents of the dream. In referring to the process, how does one dream about people for whom there is no visual image? Does one continue to dream in colour? How does one dream of places when there are no pictures to give form to those places? By the content, I mean the way in which the actual story of the dream recognises blindness, whether in the dream I encounter the problems of blindness, or know myself as being blind or do things only a blind person would do, like placing my hand on someone’s head to tell his or her height.

  23 December

  I dreamt that I was in a public library, possibly in Melbourne. I was blind because I was having various problems in sorting out my books. The librarian was helping me. Another blind man appeared. I could tell he was blind because he was carrying big boxes of what appeared to be books on tape. He had these on a large, wooden tray and, since both his hands were holding the tray, he was manoeuvring his way with difficulty between the desks and tables. He was bumping from one to another, on his way to his own desk. The books on his tray stood out vividly. They seemed to be in cardboard cases. Perhaps they were big, reel-to-reel tapes. He had cut the dust-jackets of the books up, and pasted them on to the spines of his tape boxes, so they looked just like the actual books. They were delightfully coloured, in blue, green, yellow and red. With envy and surprise, I noticed that he had a number of substantial reference books, including the Shorter Oxford English Dictionary and one or two other such volumes. I wondered whether he would let me copy his tapes, so that I could use them myself. In the meantime, I had found my way to my own desk, where I was doing some work on children’s literature. I thumbed my way through a number of children’s books, and then settled down to study a critical review. I worked my way into the first chapter, having some difficulty, because I was blind. I was not, however, using any optical aid, and the whole library scene around me was vividly portrayed.

  The blind man with his tapes, could it have been me? And yet I, another blind reader, was observing him.

  6 January

  The first experience of panic which I had in connection with blindness took place in the middle of December 1981. I was about to leave Birmingham for a fortnight’s study in Cambridge. It was a bitterly cold winter’s afternoon, and snow had been predicted. I decided that I had better get out of the house and on my way before the snow came. It was coming from the west, and with a bit of luck, I might get to Cambridge before it.

  I left the house, but had only gone a hundred yards when I became aware of a growing feeling of doubt. I became intensely aware of the fact that I was walking through nothing. It was a very interesting, cold nothing. I worked my way along the lines of the fences, wanting to take my gloves off so I could feel them better, but knowing it would be too cold. The feeling that I was going nowhere grew stronger. I was alone, entering the night of an endless tunnel of intense cold. I knew that once I went in I would not be able to come back. I would be lost. I had a sense of impending doom. By now, I must be near the pedestrian traffic lights. Here I must cross the road. I leant for a moment on the iron railings by the footpath. Everything was so still. I struggled against the fear, but could not go on.

  I turned and retraced my steps to the house, trying not to run, knowing that I could not run. Re-entering the house, I told Marilyn that I had felt a little unwell, and would lie down for a while. I set out again later in the day, this time successfully.

  I used to have a feeling of panic in 1982 during months when I was having warm baths with oil, for the benefit of my skin. In the bath, I would have a sense of being enclosed, of being nothing but a body floating in space. The bath was supposed to last for twenty minutes, but it was a terrible effort of will to stay there for that long. I made myself count the seconds, then the minutes and refused to let myself reach out a hand to the talking clock until I knew that I must have been there for at least half the required time. The last five minutes were always the worst.

  The third type of panic I have experienced in recent months is associated with the breathlessness of asthma. This is rare, but rather frightening. A day or two before Christmas I had been a little short of breath for an hour or so during the evening. I went upstairs about eleven o’clock at night and this gave me a slight wheeze. Reaching the bedroom, I sat on the edge of the bed. I was suddenly aware that my hands, my forehead and, indeed, my whole body were perspiring. I had an intense feeling of being enclosed. I desperately needed to get out. I must get out. I felt that I was banging my head, my whole body, against a wall of blindness. I had to break through this black curtain, this dark veil which surrounded me. Somewhere, out there, there was a world of light. I had to get out into it. At the same time, I had a sense of outrage. How could this happen to me? How could it be possible? What right had they? Who could ask me to go through this? Who had the right to deprive me of the sight of my own children at Christmas time?

  I was filled with a sense
of the unreality of the outside world. Only my body, sitting on the edge of the bed, was real. Out there, somewhere, there was supposed to be a house. I knew that, if I moved my body, I would feel parts of that house, bit by bit, as I moved my body along it. There would be corners, walls, wallpaper, surfaces, but until I did that, it was not there. All the people in it, the voices, the sound of the piano being played downstairs, everything floated as if coming from another world, another planet. Only I was there. I was real but this was all drifting away.

  The difficulty I was having in breathing because of the asthma led to an associated sense of being attacked. I felt that I was being strangled, suffocated by the blackness. I was in a hot box, there was no light or air. This increased my compulsion to break out and to get away. I was trapped in a little place.

  There was a persistent image which bothered me quite a bit during the early months and years of my blindness. This now came back with great power and oppressed me. I am in a little coal-truck in a mineshaft. This opens off the side of a hill. In I go, being trundled deeper and deeper into the hillside. Looking back, I can still see the light. I can see the opening of the shaft. There is a round window of light at the end of the tunnel. We are trundling further and further into the mountain. We are on a level surface, not going down, but going further and further in. The little round circle of daylight is getting smaller and smaller. I know that whoever is driving the train of little coal buckets will stop soon. It can’t just go on and on like this. At any moment trucks will slow down, pause and reverse. The little well of light will start to enlarge. But no, this does not happen. Are we out of control? Is there nobody driving? Is nobody in a position to stop it? I must get out. I have to jump out. I must run back. This is not possible. The little trucks remorselessly carry me in, deeper and deeper.

  Now I become aware of the weight of mountain overhead. It hides the light, the day, the air. I am still trundling deeper and deeper into the weight, into the solidity of it. I cannot even orientate myself by the slightest pinprick of light. I know now that between me and the world there lies this mountain of rock, or this impenetrable mass of smoky veil which is heavy and hot like the rock itself. I am trapped in an intolerable hiding place.