Helen Keller - The World I Live In

"The autobiography of Helen Keller is unquestionably one of the most remarkable records ever published."British Weekly.

"This book is a human document of intense interest, and without a parallel, we suppose, in the history of literature."Yorkshire Post.

"Miss Keller's autobiography, well written and full of practical interest in all sides of life, literary, artistic and social, records an extraordinary victory over physical disabilities."Times.

"This book is a record of the miraculous. No one can read it without being profoundly touched by the patience and devotion which brought the blind, deaf-mute child into touch with human life, without being filled with wonder at the quick intelligence which made such communication with the outside world possible."Queen.

To

HENRY H. ROGERS

MY DEAR FRIEND OF

MANY YEARS

The essays and the poem in this book appeared originally in the "CenturyMagazine," the essays under the titles "A Chat About the Hand," "Senseand Sensibility," and "My Dreams." Mr. Gilder suggested the articles,and I thank him for his kind interest and encouragement. But he mustalso accept the responsibility which goes with my gratitude. For it isowing to his wish and that of other editors that I talk so much aboutmyself.

Every book is in a sense autobiographical. But while otherself-recording creatures are permitted at least to seem to change thesubject, apparently nobody cares what I think of the tariff, theconservation of our natural resources, or the conflicts which revolveabout the name of Dreyfus. If I offer to reform the education system ofthe world, my editorial friends say, "That is interesting. But will youplease tell us what idea you had of goodness and beauty when you weresix years old?" First they ask me to tell the life of the child who ismother to the woman. Then they make me my own daughter and ask for anaccount of grown-up sensations. Finally I am requested to write about mydreams, and thus I become an anachronical grandmother; for it is thespecial privilege of old age to relate dreams. The editors are so kindthat they are no doubt right in thinking that nothing I have to sayabout the affairs of the universe would be interesting. But until theygive me opportunity to write about matters that are not-me, the worldmust go on uninstructed and unreformed, and I can only do my best withthe one small subject upon which I am allowed to discourse.

In "The Chant of Darkness" I did not intend to set up as a poet. Ithought I was writing prose, except for the magnificent passage from Jobwhich I was paraphrasing. But this part seemed to my friends to separateitself from the exposition, and I made it into a kind of poem.

H. K.

I HAVE just touched my dog. He was rolling on the grass, with pleasurein every muscle and limb. I wanted to catch a picture of him in myfingers, and I touched him as lightly as I would cobwebs; but lo, hisfat body revolved, stiffened and solidified into an upright position,and his tongue gave my hand a lick! He pressed close to me, as if hewere fain to crowd himself into my hand. He loved it with his tail, withhis paw, with his tongue. If he could speak, I believe he would say withme that paradise is attained by touch; for in touch is all love andintelligence.

This small incident started me on a chat about hands, and if my chat isfortunate I have to thank my dog-star. In any case, it is pleasant tohave something to talk about that no one else has monopolized; it islike making a new path in the trackless woods, blazing the trail whereno foot has pressed before. I am glad to take you by the hand and leadyou along an untrodden way into a world where the hand is supreme. Butat the very outset we encounter a difficulty. You are so accustomed tolight, I fear you will stumble when I try to guide you through the landof darkness and silence. The blind are not supposed to be the best ofguides. Still, though I cannot warrant not to lose you, I promise thatyou shall not be led into fire or water, or fall into a deep pit. Ifyou will follow me patiently, you will find that "there's a sound sofine, nothing lives 'twixt it and silence," and that there is more meantin things than meets the eye.

My hand is to me what your hearing and sight together are to you. Inlarge measure we travel the same highways, read the same books, speakthe same language, yet our experiences are different. All my comings andgoings turn on the hand as on a pivot. It is the hand that binds me tothe world of men and women. The hand is my feeler with which I reachthrough isolation and darkness and seize every pleasure, every activitythat my fingers encounter. With the dropping of a little word fromanother's hand into mine, a slight flutter of the fingers, began theintelligence, the joy, the fullness of my life. Like Job, I feel as ifa hand had made me, fashioned me together round about and moulded myvery soul.

In all my experiences and thoughts I am conscious of a hand. Whatevermoves 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 whichmakes 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 haveaccumulated by means of touch. The delicate tremble of a butterfly'swings in my hand, the soft petals of violets curling in the cool foldsof 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 andthe velvety touch of his noseall these, and a thousand resultantcombinations, which take shape in my mind, constitute my world.

Ideas make the world we live in, and impressions furnish ideas. My worldis built of touch-sensations, devoid of physical colour and sound; butwithout colour and sound it breathes and throbs with life. Every objectis associated in my mind with tactual qualities which, combined incountless ways, give me a sense of power, of beauty, or of incongruity:for with my hands I can feel the comic as well as the beautiful in theoutward appearance of things. Remember that you, dependent on yoursight, do not realize how many things are tangible. All palpable thingsare mobile or rigid, solid or liquid, big or small, warm or cold, andthese qualities are variously modified. The coolness of a water-lilyrounding into bloom is different from the coolness of an evening wind insummer, and different again from the coolness of the rain that soaksinto the hearts of growing things and gives them life and body. Thevelvet of the rose is not that of a ripe peach or of a baby's dimpledcheek. The hardness of the rock is to the hardness of wood what a man'sdeep bass is to a woman's voice when it is low. What I call beauty Ifind in certain combinations of all these qualities, and is largelyderived from the flow of curved and straight lines which is over allthings.