Poignant and enlightening. This book stayed with me for months after I read it and so I recently returned to read it again. The author himself notes that this is not your “typical” narrative of a blind person who then goes on to do amazing things. He had read many such stories after becoming blind and unlike most such authors, who wrote to inspire or to proclaim a faith, he simply wants to write down his musings on the meaning of blindness. He doesn't claim to tell a story with a clear beginning, middle and end, much less one with a happy ending. In particular, his book has no particular ending “because blindness has no ending. It would be nice to say that a miracle happened, but it didn’t.”
This quote encapsulates Hull’s dispassionate approach to his own blindness. He does not bring in deeper ideas such as faith or an ultimate meaning for why he became blind, nor try to inspire anyone. The book is simply a journal of his thoughts on and experiences with blindness, and the candour is refreshing.
Here are some of his experiences that stood out to me:
He felt a sense of loss that he would never know the faces of his children who were born after he lost his sight. He wondered how his relationship with those children would differ from his relationship with the daughter he had while sighted.
His children took a long time to understand what blindness meant. Initially he would play with his son in a dark room for a long time, and his son assumed that daddy could see in the dark, so never asked to turn on the light. Or his children asking when he would get better, e.g. “When I’m much older, say ten, will daddy be able to see?” “If I cried and put my tears on daddy’s eyes, would he be able to see?” (A question after reading Rapunzel) Or when they asked "Does blindness mean daddy can't see colours?" Hull notes that adults also don't always grasp the full meaning of blindness, e.g. when they give him directions to a building by saying it's "over there".
He missed being able to watch children playing. Not being able to play many kinds of games with his children (except tactile toys like Meccano), or to even observe them playing. He also missed being able to read stories to children or to point out the world around them and explain it.
He found it hard to socialise e.g. during networking sessions or parties because he did not know who else was in the room. It was even more awkward to end conversations because nobody wants to walk away from a conversation with a blind man and leave him standing alone in the room. He developed a strategy of asking his conversational partner to either name who else was in the room, or to introduce him to a new person. (In the process he also learned a lot about his conversational partner's skill - or lack of it - in introducing people!)
His account of a networking session for blind people amused me. Everybody simply starts shouting the name of the person they want to talk to, and moves in that direction if they hear their name being called!
He also missed out on those simple conversations that "just happen" because you saw somebody you know in the corridor (or on the street, or in the office pantry). He used to enjoy sitting in his university staff lounge and chatting with any colleagues who were there. Although he still went to the staff lounge after becoming blind, people who were already there no longer approached him to chat, so he often just sat there bored and alone. Yet when he got up to leave, suddenly many people offered help with navigation. If he had known they were there, he would have wanted to talk to them!
He disliked it when people treated him like a child because of his blindness. E.g. when they spoke to a sighted friend or family member instead of him - in one conversation, someone asked his friends, in relation to getting into a car, "Will John go in the front or the back?" He said something like "John can speak for himself, and will not be treated like a piece of luggage, thank you." Or once when he was lost and asked a passerby for directions to get somewhere, the passerby hailed a cab for him and gave the driver detailed instructions on how to get to the place, which Hull thought was similar to what one would do for a child. Or another time when he asked a woman sitting beside him at some event to cut up his chicken for him, she did so then remarked "It's just like what I do for my kids."
He had bad experiences with people who told him "If only you try __, your blindness will be healed." (E.g. always carry a physical Bible with you, try this medical treatment, try that psychic.) When he refused, they would ask him "But what's the harm of trying it? Don't you want to be healed?" He thought that one of the few things remaining to blind people is their dignity, which he refused to give up in this way.
He loved the rain. (It happens to be raining now as I write this.) To a blind person, the world is only as large as what they can touch or hear. But sounds are intermittent, not continuously available, so the world usually consists of whatever one's body is touching. But when it rains, suddenly a wider world of sound comes into existence around him. He even learned to distinguish the sound of rain dripping from his roof, or falling on his garden path compared to on a shrub, so that he could mentally "see" his garden based on the sound of the rain.