I am a writer, so this struck a particular chord with me.
It's bad enough when a writer gets a fatal brain tumor. It's quite another thing when he gets one near that part of the brain that deals with language, and his very words die as he does.
is a powerful tale of decline, and sometimes reads like poetry. I do think it would make for a very poignant film.
My experience of the world is not made less by lack of language but is essentially unchanged.
This is curious.
"Would it be imaginable that people should never speak an audible language, but should still say things to themselves in the imagination?" Ludwig Wittgenstein
One way, but not the other way, but sometimes in both ways.
Pure music I can do, narrative music I can't.
Film, I understand shape and colour but not story.
Poetry is still beautiful, taking me with it.
Pictures, I understand abstract but not story. But I can actually do much more still with pictures. This is my job.
My language works in ever decreasing circles. The whole of English richness is lost to me and I move fewer and fewer words around.
I cannot count. At all.
Marion and her embrace.
Ground, river and sea.
Eugene – his toys, his farm, his cars, his fishing game.
Names are going.
Writing, there is no voice.