fly, is examined, the light must come from above and from the front of the stage, since the light from the mirror cannot penetrate solids.
âHave you had your job long?â asked the aunt.
âYes,â said Diddy.
The aunt subsided, perhaps unable for the moment to think of another question. Diddy looked, questioningly, at the girl. The optical microscope was an ancient and noble instrument, essentially unchanged over the centuries. But useless without eyes, a far nobler instrument and infinitely more ancient. Was the girl born blind? One elementary piece of information her aunt hadnât volunteered. Hester hadnât answered him either, when he asked if sheâd always been like this. Diddy wants to know. Yet hardly something he could ask (now).
Corneal opacities usually date from birth. But not necessarily. Hester could have gone blind during childhood; her eyes badly scarred from, say, severe conjunctivitis. She might once have seen everything in the usual way: flesh, flowers, the sky. Even looked through a microscope in her eighth-grade science class.
âWhat kind of microscope?â said the stamp dealer. Was he interested, too?
Diddyâs company manufactured several of the standard varieties. Some of the less familiar types, too.
Toolmakers microscopes.
Metallurgical microscopes.
Comparison microscopes.
Projection microscopes.
Ophthalmoscopes.
Retinoscopes.
Otoscopes.
These last three, medical tools, used by eye and ear specialists.
The aunt perked up. âMaybe they use your companyâs microscopes at the Warren Institute. Your company might make something that the doctors really need, thatâs going to help my Hester.â
âIâd like to think that,â said Diddy, feeling still more uncomfortable at this tactless turn of the conversation. The girl, being blind, had become a thing; discussed as if she werenât even present in our compartment.
âIf I could see through an instrument,â said the girl suddenly, âthe one Iâd choose would be a telescope. Iâd like to see the stars. Especially to see the light coming from a dead star. One that died a million years ago, but goes on as if it didnât know it was dead.â
âLovey, youâre being morbid again!â The aunt, nestling into Hesterâs unresponsive shoulder. âI want my little girl to continue to be brave.â
âItâs not morbid to be more interested in big things than in little things,â said the girl sharply.
And, feeling anew the wave of kinship that flowed between them and the magical synchronicity of their thoughts, it occurred to Diddy: Then perhaps itâs not morbid to be more interested in what is dead than what is alive.
He, at least, no longer had a choice. The workman was like one of the dead stars that Hester longed to see. Already extinguished, but still sending forth over long distances a beam of light as lifelike and convincing as that issuing from the most vibrant and contemporary star. Diddy had to remind himself that the workman existed in the past. Not be led astray by appearances. However strong the light which the workman cast on Diddyâs mind, the man was really dead. Diddy had killed a black sun, which now burned in his head. Surely the girl could see the black sun, if she tried. Even being blind. Or perhaps because of that. Was she testing him? He must hold fast to the difference between dead stars and living stars, however the evidence of his senses confuses him.
Hold fast as well to the difference between large and small, far and near. Every moment the train bore him farther away. And night was falling, when all light becomes false. An artifice: a brave lie to stave off fear of the dark; a trick. Like all sighted people, Diddy needs to be able to tell the difference. While the girl, forced to live consistently in the dark, is exempt from that perilous task of discrimination. But perhaps she was different from
âHave you had your job long?â asked the aunt.
âYes,â said Diddy.
The aunt subsided, perhaps unable for the moment to think of another question. Diddy looked, questioningly, at the girl. The optical microscope was an ancient and noble instrument, essentially unchanged over the centuries. But useless without eyes, a far nobler instrument and infinitely more ancient. Was the girl born blind? One elementary piece of information her aunt hadnât volunteered. Hester hadnât answered him either, when he asked if sheâd always been like this. Diddy wants to know. Yet hardly something he could ask (now).
Corneal opacities usually date from birth. But not necessarily. Hester could have gone blind during childhood; her eyes badly scarred from, say, severe conjunctivitis. She might once have seen everything in the usual way: flesh, flowers, the sky. Even looked through a microscope in her eighth-grade science class.
âWhat kind of microscope?â said the stamp dealer. Was he interested, too?
Diddyâs company manufactured several of the standard varieties. Some of the less familiar types, too.
Toolmakers microscopes.
Metallurgical microscopes.
Comparison microscopes.
Projection microscopes.
Ophthalmoscopes.
Retinoscopes.
Otoscopes.
These last three, medical tools, used by eye and ear specialists.
The aunt perked up. âMaybe they use your companyâs microscopes at the Warren Institute. Your company might make something that the doctors really need, thatâs going to help my Hester.â
âIâd like to think that,â said Diddy, feeling still more uncomfortable at this tactless turn of the conversation. The girl, being blind, had become a thing; discussed as if she werenât even present in our compartment.
âIf I could see through an instrument,â said the girl suddenly, âthe one Iâd choose would be a telescope. Iâd like to see the stars. Especially to see the light coming from a dead star. One that died a million years ago, but goes on as if it didnât know it was dead.â
âLovey, youâre being morbid again!â The aunt, nestling into Hesterâs unresponsive shoulder. âI want my little girl to continue to be brave.â
âItâs not morbid to be more interested in big things than in little things,â said the girl sharply.
And, feeling anew the wave of kinship that flowed between them and the magical synchronicity of their thoughts, it occurred to Diddy: Then perhaps itâs not morbid to be more interested in what is dead than what is alive.
He, at least, no longer had a choice. The workman was like one of the dead stars that Hester longed to see. Already extinguished, but still sending forth over long distances a beam of light as lifelike and convincing as that issuing from the most vibrant and contemporary star. Diddy had to remind himself that the workman existed in the past. Not be led astray by appearances. However strong the light which the workman cast on Diddyâs mind, the man was really dead. Diddy had killed a black sun, which now burned in his head. Surely the girl could see the black sun, if she tried. Even being blind. Or perhaps because of that. Was she testing him? He must hold fast to the difference between dead stars and living stars, however the evidence of his senses confuses him.
Hold fast as well to the difference between large and small, far and near. Every moment the train bore him farther away. And night was falling, when all light becomes false. An artifice: a brave lie to stave off fear of the dark; a trick. Like all sighted people, Diddy needs to be able to tell the difference. While the girl, forced to live consistently in the dark, is exempt from that perilous task of discrimination. But perhaps she was different from
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