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182 pages, Paperback
First published January 1, 1904
In her lovingly crafted and deeply perceptive autobiography, Keller's joyous spirit is most vividly expressed in her connection to nature:
Indeed, everything that could hum, or buzz, or sing, or bloom, had a part in my education.... Few know what joy it is to feel the roses pressing softly into the hand, or the beautiful motion of the lilies as they sway in the morning breeze. Sometimes I caught an insect in the flower I was plucking, and I felt the faint noise of a pair of wings rubbed together in a sudden terror....
The idea of feeling rather than hearing a sound, or of admiring a flower's motion rather than its color, evokes a strong visceral sensation in the reader, giving The Story of My Life a subtle power and beauty. Keller's celebration of discovery becomes our own. In the end, this blind and deaf woman succeeds in sharpening our eyes and ears to the beauty of the world. --Shawn Carkonen
Critics delight to tell us what we cannot do. They assume that blindness and deafness sever us completely from the things which the seeing and the hearing enjoy, and hence they assert we have no moral right to talk about beauty, the skies, mountains, the song of birds, and colors. They declare that the very sensations we have from the sense of touch are "vicarious," as though our friends felt the sun for us! They deny a priori what they have no seen and I have felt. Some brave doubters have gone so far even as to deny my existence. In order, therefore, that I may know that I exist, I resort to Descartes's method: "I think, therefore I am," Thus I am metaphysically established, and I throw upon the doubters the burden of proving my non-existence. When we consider how little has been found out about the mind, is it not amazing that any one should presume to define what one can know or cannot know? I admit that there are innumerable marvels in the visible universe unguessed by me. Likewise, O confident critic, there are myriad sensations perceived by me of which you do not dream.
I should say that organ-music fills to an ecstasy the act of feeling.Whatever I was expecting from this book, it certainly wasn't what I largely got, in a very good sense of the word. Keller's marvelous ridding thought, philosophy, and holistic fulfillment of human capacity of its inherent assumptions of sight and hearing is a wonder so initially brilliantly yet so hindsightedly obvious that it belongs with the best class of concepts that humanity has composed thus far. Plato's allegory of the cave, the science behind human vision, the sensuality intrinsic to a world experienced through smell and movement, all move beyond the senses that I rely on for 80-95% of my tasks in daily life and into a realm both extremely imaginative and intensely physical that, during the course of reading this, I have realized would be torture to do without. It is astonishing how long this particular text has been around and how little I have seen its influences elsewhere, but then again, considering the usual extremely depressing sets of context impacting older works by disabled women (what works would one even put into that category, especially pre-1950?), it makes perfect sense. That, however, doesn't give anyone today who deals with such topics an excuse for not reading up on an extremely slim pamphlet of essays, each clearly delineated with a brief, subject relevant title (weeding in the stacks today meant dealing some excessively cutesey wootsey and thus borderline useless reference books, and boy was that an eye opener). Inspiring empiring yadda yadda yadda: just give every disabled person the same level of socioeconomic centered care and quality of life that Keller received being a nosy git about it, and Nazis will stop creeping back into the Overton Window so much.
But until they give me opportunity to write about matters that are not-me, the world must go on uninstructed and unreformed, and I can only do my best with the one small subject upon which I am allowed to discourse.
No loss by flood and lightning, no destruction of cities and temples by the hostile forces of nature, has deprived man of so many noble lives and impulses as those which his tolerance has destroyed.One note to any reader of this work is that the editor of this particular edition is an ableist waste of space, so if you must read the introduction, feel free to skip the last infantilizing, sentiment-dripping page of it. After that, be prepared to have many of your conventions challenged and your assumptions blasted out of the stratosphere of their usual self-absorbed orbit, leastwise until the Optimism essay when Keller turns straight up racist US colonialism apologist (she definitely ran into one too horror stories regarding Indian people and Hinduism's relationship with disabled people). So, hardly the work of a perfect saint, but definitely not one deserving of being out of print for more than a century (not the first work by a woman that I've read this year that's suffered from such, disgustingly enough). I'm certainly glad that I read it, extremely valuable, enlightening work that it is.
Out of the uncharted, unthinkable dark we came,
And in a little time we shall return again
Into the vast, unanswering dark.
"It is not for me to say whether we see best with the hand or the eye. I only know that the world I see with my fingers is alive, ruddy and satisfying."
"I have walked with people whose eyes are full of light, but who see nothing in city streets, nothing in books. What a witless masquerade is this seeing!"
"The thousand soft voices of the earth have truly found their way to me - the small rustle in tufts of grass, the silky swish of leaves, the buzz of insects, the hum of bees in blossoms I have plucked, the flutter of a bird's wings after his bath, and the slender rippling vibration of water running over pebbles."
…it is a literary sin to bore the reader...Blind and deaf from infancy, she ties the senses and our world interpretation through them to the imagination:
The silent worker is imagination which decrees reality out of chaos.Her powerful imagination, her passion and intensity, ripple through sentences like these:
The meadow brook undoes its icy fetters with rippling notes, gurgles, and runs free. And all this is wrought in less than two months to the music of nature's orchestra, in the midst of balmy incense.Her warnings of the darkness of ignorance, of people who will not see, her urgings for us to stretch your horizons, and cherish what we have, make this short book a gem.
