The Atlantic Monthly | Page 8

only forty-five times in this
interval,--a fact to be easily explained by the perfect quiescence to
which I was reduced, and the consequent absence of that healthy and
constant stimulus to the muscles of the heart which exercise occasions.
Notwithstanding these drawbacks, my physical health was good, which
I confess surprised me, for this among other reasons. It is said that a
burn of two thirds of the surface destroys life, because then all the
excretory matters which this portion of the glands of the skin evolved
are thrown upon the blood, and poison the man, just as happens in an
animal whose skin the physiologist has varnished, so as in this way to
destroy its function. Yet here was I, having lost at least a third of my
skin, and apparently none the worse for it.
Still more remarkable, however, were the physical changes which I
now began to perceive. I found to my horror that at times I was less
conscious of myself, of my own existence, than used to be the case.

This sensation was so novel, that at first it quite bewildered me. I felt
like asking some one constantly if I were really George Dedlow or not;
but, well aware how absurd I should seem after such a question, I
refrained from speaking of my case, and strove more keenly to analyze
my feelings. At times the conviction of my want of being myself was
overwhelming, and most painful. It was, as well as I can describe it, a
deficiency in the egoistic sentiment of individuality. About one half of
the sensitive surface of my skin was gone, and thus much of relation to
the outer world destroyed. As a consequence, a large part of the
receptive central organs must be out of employ, and, like other idle
things, degenerating rapidly. Moreover, all the great central ganglia,
which give rise to movements in the limbs, were also eternally at rest.
Thus one half of me was absent or functionally dead. This set me to
thinking how much a man might lose and yet live. If I were unhappy
enough to survive, I might part with my spleen at least, as many a dog
has done, and grown fat afterwards. The other organs, with which we
breathe and circulate the blood, would be essential; so also would the
liver; but at least half of the intestines might be dispensed with, and of
course all of the limbs. And as to the nervous system, the only parts
really necessary to life are a few small ganglia. Were the rest absent or
inactive, we should have a man reduced, as it were, to the lowest terms,
and leading an almost vegetative existence. Would such a being, I
asked myself, possess the sense of individuality in its usual
completeness,--even if his organs of sensation remained, and he were
capable of consciousness? Of course, without them, he could not have
it any more than a dahlia, or a tulip. But with it--how then? I concluded
that it would be at a minimum, and that, if utter loss of relation to the
outer world were capable of destroying a man's consciousness of
himself, the destruction of half of his sensitive surfaces might well
occasion, in a less degree, a like result, and so diminish his sense of
individual existence.
I thus reached the conclusion that a man is not his brain, or any one part
of it, but all of his economy, and that to lose any part must lessen this
sense of his own existence. I found but one person who properly
appreciated this great truth. She was a New England lady, from
Hartford,--an agent, I think, for some commission, perhaps the Sanitary.

After I had told her my views and feelings, she said: "Yes, I
comprehend. The fractional entities of vitality are embraced in the
oneness of the unitary Ego. Life," she added, "is the garnered
condensation of objective impressions; and, as the objective is the
remote father of the subjective, so must individuality, which is but
focused subjectivity, suffer and fade when the sensation lenses, by
which the rays of impression are condensed, become destroyed." I am
not quite clear that I fully understood her, but I think she appreciated
my ideas, and I felt grateful for her kindly interest.
The strange want I have spoken of now haunted and perplexed me so
constantly, that I became moody and wretched. While in this state, a
man from a neighboring ward fell one morning into conversation with
the chaplain, within earshot of my chair. Some of their words arrested
my attention, and I turned my head to see and listen. The speaker, who
wore a sergeant's chevron and carried one arm in a sling, was a tall,
loosely made person, with