Letters, p.70
Letters, page 70
I visited Stuyvesant High School a few months ago—or perhaps it was longer, because so many of the people there had memories of 9/11, the terrible events which occurred only a little way from the school—and was tremendously impressed by the “feeling” of the school, and its outstanding intellectual quality (my friend Roald Hoffmann, to whom I dedicate Uncle Tungsten, and who is a Nobel-prize winner in Chemistry, went to Stuyvesant, and speaks of it with great warmth). So, I think you should go there! Glad you liked “The Mind’s Eye” in the New Yorker (I have another piece—“The River of Consciousness”—in the current NY Review of Books—I enclose this too). And schizophrenia, since you mention it, is a realm I am starting to explore—a landscape as strange and primitive (sometimes frightening, sometimes beautiful) as Yellowstone Park.
My great love, after minerals, was Animals too—you saw all the [models of] squids and cuttlefish etc around my place—and I have been wondering, recently, if some of them not only move, but perceive, and live, at different rates (I enclose a passage, an imaginative ride, from William James’ Principles of Psychology—I suspect Wells read this as well, because in some of his stories people get strangely accelerated or retarded). Sorry to hear about your poor rat—I hope you get another one (but there is a real sense of grief when a pet dear to one dies). I wonder if rats think, or react, more quickly than we do? I am still wondering about [getting] one myself.
I hope you had a lovely Hanukhah (no idea how to spell it—Chanukah, perhaps?), and wish you a very happy New Year (and keep writing! I will look forward to your letters).
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Nick Younes, another correspondent, wrote to OS in 2001; his letter was so learned that OS assumed he must be an elderly chemistry professor. Younes explained that he was actually a high school student with an interest in philosophy, chemistry, and much else. They began to correspond regularly and soon became friends.
To Nick Younes
February 21, 2004
2 Horatio St., New York
Dear Nick,
I have just got back from Australia—my brother suddenly went into near-coma, and I rushed to what I thought would be his deathbed, or funeral—but, against all expectations, he then recovered, cerebrally, became completely himself, so that we could have a lot of brotherly (but, of course, farewell) conversation. He is pitifully weak and emaciated, and cannot, I imagine, last much longer. […]
Although I had been told that my brother was “semi-comatose” I found his state more singular than this: he made (at least initiated) no movement, and (at first) was without speech, and his eyes were open but showed no following; then he would move and speak, but only in response. When I arrived in Sydney last Saturday night, he stuck out his hand in recognition, but otherwise seemed to be in a “zombie-like” state, with no spontaneity, no emotion, not personally there (or so I felt). And then, on Tuesday, against all odds, all expectation, he recovered full consciousness, and “self”—all his spontaneity, and humor and powers of reflection—and being himself a curious physician looked at me earnestly, and said “Well what do you make of it all?” His recovery from (what is usually an irreversible state of) “akinetic mutism” (usually associated with massive midline or medial lesions in mid- or fore-brain) filled me equally with gratitude and delight (at being able to hug him, talk with him, which I never thought I would do again) and a lot of neurological wonder, in particular a sense of how inadequate it is to speak just of “consciousness,” and how there are many forms of it, all with their own neural substrates—so that, on Tuesday morning, there was a sudden resurrection or switching-on of “self,” “ego,” “higher-order consciousness,” “meta-consciousness” (whatever term one uses), a sudden return to himself. He had some amnesia for the episode—and immediately asked “How long was I away?” […]
Kate also put on top of my mail the package just received from Max[*17] in England—viz a kilo of shining, incredibly dense (5–10 Gm) nuggets of iridium—(Max calls them “Smarties”). I had them by my bedside last night, and whenever I woke marvelled anew at the weight of this little plastic bottle, only a third full, which weighs so much—I would (of course) much prefer a single shining piece—and if Max can get the right sort of induction-furnace I will send them back to be melted into a single blob (a blob would be fine with me, it doesn’t have to be a particular shape). I also got a lovely slightly bluish “drop” of osmium (weighing 10.3 Gm)—what a beautiful metal (I was just telling Daniel Brush[*18] about it). And, at the other end, quite a large ovoid (67.5 Gm, but it only has an SG of 1.7) of beryllium. I hope Theo will be able to make some cylinders of various metals to “match” the tungsten cylinder you saw—I have to contact him. I think I will also get a kilo of depleted U (unless this imperils my Resident Alien status, I musn’t imperil my Green Card in these paranoid days) and a largeish chunk of lithium (I think it is in argon, though I wish it could be in Perspex or plastic-wrapped so I could handle it). […]
My best,
Oliver
To Kevin Cahill
Physician
June 1, 2004
2 Horatio St., New York
Dear Kevin,
[…] Thank you for the very full notes on the patient you are referring to me—we have indicated to him that I would be happy to see him, and that he should set up a time at my Tuesday clinic at NYU. […]
Now something quite different! When I was in England last week I chanced to see a CNN section devoted to Lariam.[*19] This came up because there have been further incidents of soldiers returning from Iraq in very disturbed states, sometimes going on murderous rampages, ending with their own (actual or attempted) suicides. Many (or all) of these soldiers have been on Lariam. Some high US official—Secretary of this-or-that—said that he doubted if there was any connection here, & that he knew of no studies regarding significant (neuropsychiatric) side-effects of Lariam, but the Army would “look into it.” There was then an interview with a researcher, who noted that there had been careful, double-blind studies of Lariam in 2001 and 2003 which showed a 30% or higher incidence of “neuropsychiatric complications,” and that for this reason the Canadian and Australian forces absolutely avoided its use unless it was strictly necessary because of chloroquine-resistant “malignant” (falciparum) malaria. She added that whatever malaria there was in Iraq was not “malignant,” and that therefore there had been no good reason to use Lariam there in the first place. She expressed surprise at the Secretary’s not apparently knowing of these things.
I was intrigued at all this, because—as you will recollect—I myself had very bizarre almost hallucination-like dreams on Lariam—they went on for weeks and were unlike anything I had ever experienced, and you said, when I asked you, that you thought the incidence of striking (and sometimes serious) neuropsychiatric “side-effects” of Lariam was far higher than the 1% the PDR allowed—and closer, perhaps to 30 or 40% (this was right back in 1995).
Wondering how the Press would deal with this CNN interview, I scoured the papers (I had no US papers available to me in London), and found a Lariam item in the Guardian—an item going in the other direction, for it described the grave illnesses (and sometimes deaths) of several English people from cerebral malaria, because they had refused to try Lariam (having heard exaggerated or hyped-up reports of this). Both the US soldiers and the English civilians would have been very much better off with balanced knowledge of the drug, the indications for taking it, the need for careful monitoring, etc. etc. I felt like writing a Letter to the Editor (? of the NY Times), but I wonder if you, as an expert in these matters, might write an Op-Ed. Do give me your thoughts.
Warmest regards,
Oliver
To Christof Koch
July 21, 2004
2 Horatio St., New York
Dear Christof,
Thank you so much for your patience and care with repeated check-up calls from the New Yorker—indeed, your help and thoughts throughout the incubation of this piece.[*20] I have been irritated, but also admire, the fact-checkers’ pertinacity and vigilance (they have phoned everybody—Libet, Ralph, Noyes & Kletti, etc.—they would have phoned Wm James if he were still alive…). I enclose what (other than any overlooked typos or other errors) will be the published version of the piece. […]
When I was asked to identify a mass of old letters yesterday (they are all addressed to “Bob,” and the question was which Bob—actually seven different Bobs, I found, were involved), I found this letter (xerox enclosed) to an ophthalmological Bob[*21] (the one who worked on the achromatopic painter with me) about discontinuities of visual perception—so you see I was “hot” on this subject twenty years before it re-emerged (for me), writing to you and Francis, etc. Indeed I remember calling Richard Gregory excitedly, around 1974 or so, because my overhead fan seemed to be doing odd things in the even morning light. I seem to have a great capacity to “forget”—but then, years later, things re-emerge. I wonder if it is the same with you?
Is Francis holding on?[*22] I hope, at least, he is not suffering too much—there is a limit to the powers of transcendence, even in a Francis (or a Hume), if pain, nausea, etc. become too great.
I normally go to Australia in August, but with my brother’s death there (in March—I had a visit with him in February) I am not going to go again next month. I have no idea what I will be doing—but if my thoughts turn West (Ralph is enjoying himself in La Jolla)[*23] I will let you know. Again, all my thanks, and warmest regards to you (and, of course, Francis).
Oliver
To Christof Koch
July 29, 2004
2 Horatio St., New York
Dear Christof,
I just heard, last night, from Ralph, of Francis’s death.
I have some inkling of how close you and Francis were—and send you my deepest sympathy. I think the two of you had a unique relationship, at once intellectual and emotional, which brought a special light and creativity into both of your lives, and which must have been a joy and an illumination to you both. Even I, who only knew Francis a little, feel somewhat orphaned by his death, and for you this feeling, I suspect, may be overwhelming.
One knew he was critically, terminally ill, yet the absoluteness of death is no less shocking for this.
I am especially glad that I was able to re-encounter Francis last year, to correspond with him and you, to write and think in relation to his/your ideas, and, last August, to meet him again.
That sunny lunch, with you and Ralph, and Francis and Odile presiding, and the conversation going in all sorts of unexpected ways, and Francis’s piercing mind and (mischievous!) imagination leaping out in all directions, and his grace and courage dealing with his illness—that lunch will stay in my mind forever.
I wish I could be with you, and Ralph, and Odile (et al.) now, but am confined (by sciatica) to staying home.
Again, my deepest sympathy and warmest regards,
Oliver
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In January 1996, OS attended the launch of a space shuttle mission, flight STS-72, at the invitation of his astronaut friend Marsha Ivins. Ivins was not flying on that mission, but she had been assigned as ground support for the astronauts’ families, and she introduced OS to Sue Barry, a professor of neurobiology at Mount Holyoke. (Sue’s husband, Dan Barry, flew many NASA shuttle missions, including STS-72.) OS noticed that Sue had a squint—that is, one of her eyes seemed to look inward—and he asked whether she had stereovision. She replied no, that she did not have good convergence and thus had no binocular depth perception (though she could infer depth from other clues). Now, nine years later, she wrote to OS to tell him that she had, through optometric vision therapy exercises, in fact achieved binocularity.
To Susan R. Barry
Professor of Neurobiology
January 3, 2005
2 Horatio St., New York
Dear Mrs. Barry,
I have vivid memories of that night, the eve of STS-72, and have received Christmas/New Year cards from the two of you (or all of you) over the years, but have not, I’m afraid, been anything of a correspondent.
But your letter of the 29th fills me with amazement—and admiration, at your welcoming your “new world” of visual space with such openness and wonder, even if it meant your developing a fear of heights in Kauai—and at your describing it with such care, and lyricism and accuracy.
Amazement, because it has been “accepted” for years (but clearly Dr. Ruggiero had evidence and thoughts to the contrary) that if binocular vision was not achieved by a “critical age” (supposedly of some months), then stereopsis would never occur. Talking to Jerry Bruner, the psychologist, who was born with congenital cataracts which were not operated on until he was eighteen months old, seemed to confirm this. On one occasion he told me how, lacking natural lenses, with their slight yellowish tint, he could see some way into what I would call the “ultraviolet.” I asked him, breathlessly, what this was like. He answered “I can no more tell you than you could tell me what stereopsis is like.” Bertrand Russell contrasts “knowledge by description” with “knowledge by acquaintance,” and you give wonderful descriptions of how utterly they differ, of how the greatest formal or secondary knowledge can never approach actual experience.
I need to think carefully about what you describe, and perhaps discuss it, if I may, with a friend in visual physiology. I think your experience & account ought to be published, in some form or another, in view of the physiological or psychophysiological revision it seems to call for; and, at a more personal level, the hope it may give for those who have long “accepted,” at one level or another, that they are condemned to live in a “flat” world. I also think that the sheer exuberance you convey, at a sort of visual rebirth, is the sort of thing which can remind us that stereopsis (like all our perceptual powers) is a miracle and privilege, and not to be taken for granted. If one has (say) stereopsis all the while, one may indeed take it for granted; but if, as with you, one lacked it, and was then “given” it—then it comes as a wonder and revelation. This too needs to be brought out.
For one reason or another, I have never taken my own stereopsis for granted, but have found it an acute or recurrent source of pleasure/wonder for much of my life. This led me, as a boy, to experiment with stereo-photography, hyper-stereoscopes, pseudo-scopes, etc (I am still, in my eighth decade, a member of the New York and also the International Stereoscopic Society). And it caused me to pay special attention to an odd experience, in 1974, when (due to visual restriction, or rather spatial restriction) I was to discover how my own stereoscopy had been “collapsed,” and how it re-expanded over the course of an hour or so, when I was replaced in a large space (I enclose a copy of the relevant pages from A Leg to Stand On).
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Jan 4. I have taken the liberty of discussing what you describe with two colleagues of mine (Bob Wasserman, an ophthalmologist, and Ralph Siegel, who works in visual physiology), and they were as intrigued as I was, and raised a number of questions. One such, raised by Dr. Wasserman, and related to your mentioning that your eyes converged a few inches from your face, was whether you were readily able to thread a needle—which he thinks would be very difficult without stereopsis. […] Another question was whether the vertical misalignment, which Dr. Ruggiero picked up (and corrected, with a prism) had been present from the start, or whether it developed later in your life. And whether there is still what Dr. Wasserman calls some “micro-strabismus,” even though this might not be symptomatic. Other questions relate to problems with motion-perception (at least perceiving when you are in motion).
As you perhaps know I have written about people who have no perception or idea of color, and would sometimes ask them how they conceived of color, and (if it were possible to “give” them the capacity to see it) what this might mean to them. The question is a tantalizing one, because there is no known way of “giving” an achromatope color and, additionally, some of them say that they think the sudden addition of color—which never having been perceived before, and so having no associations or “meaning”—might be very confusing to them. But it is clear that the addition of “depth” or “space” to your visual world has been (almost) wholly positive.
So many questions! Since you have favored me with your story, and ask my thoughts, I think (over and above anything I can say here) that I would like to visit you, and perhaps to do so in company with my old friends and colleagues, Bob and Ralph, who could explore and check aspects of your visual perception which I myself could not do. (The three of us formed a “team” when seeing the colorblind painter [as well as] the middle-aged man “Virgil,” who was given vision after being virtually blind from birth. I wrote about both of these in my Anthropologist on Mars book.)
You asked for my response to your story, and perhaps this is too much of a response! (I am reminded of how, as soon as I heard Virgil’s story, I wanted to fly down to Atlanta to see him.)
But give me your thoughts on whether such a visit, to meet you, and to explore various aspects of visual perception with you, would be agreeable.[*24]
If it would be, we can work details later.
Again, thank you so much for sharing your experiences and thoughts with me, and—really—opening a new realm.
