Now and then I have tested my seeing friends to discover what they see. Recently I was visited by a very good friend who had just returned from a long walk in the woods， and I asked her what she had observed... “Nothing in particular” she replied. I might have been incredulous had I not been accustomed to such reposes， for long ago I became convincedthat the seeing see little.
How was it possible. I asked myself， to walk for an hour through the woods and see nothing worthy of note？ I who cannot see find hundreds of things to interest me through mere touch. I feel the delicate symmetry of a leaf. I pass mv hands lovingly about the smooth skin of a silver birch， or the rough， shaggy bark of a pine. In the spring I touch the branches of trees hopefully in search of a bud the first sign of awakening Nature after her winter’s sleep. I feel the delightful， velvety texture of a flower，and discover its remarkable convolutions； and something of the miracle of Nature is revealed to me. Occasionally， if I am very fortunate， I place mv hand gently on a small tree and feel the happy quiver of a bird in full song. I am delighted to have the cool waters of a brook rush thought my open finger. To me a lush carpet of pine needles or spongy grass is more welcome than the most luxurious Persian rug. To me the page ant of seasons is a thrilling and unending drama， the action of which streams through my finger tips.
At times my heart cries out with longing to see all these things. If I can get so much pleasure from mere touch， how much more beauty must be revealed by sight. Yet， those who have eyes apparently see little. The panorama of color and action which fills the world is taken for granted. It is human， perhaps， to appreciate little that which we have and to long for that which we have not， but it is a great pity that in the world of light the gift of sighht is used only as a mere conveniences rather than as a means of adding fullness to life.
If I were the president of a university I should establish a compulsory course in “How to Use Your Eyes”. The professor would try to show his pupils how they could add joy to their lives by really seeing what passes unnoticed before them. He would try to awake their dormant and sluggish faculties.
Perhaps I can best illustrate by imagining what 1 should most like to see if I were given the use of my eyes， say， for just three days. And while I am imagining， suppose you， too， set your mind to work on the problem of how you would use your own eyes if you had only three more days to see. If with the on， coming darkness of the third night yon knew that the sun would never rise for you again， how would you spend those three precious intervening days？ What would you most want to let your gaze rest upon’？
I， naturally， should want most to see the things which have become dear to me through my years of darkness. You， too， would want to let your eyes rest on the things that have become dear to you so that you could take the memory of them with you into the night that loomed before you.
…
Perhaps this short outline of how I should spend three days of sight does not agree with the program you would set for yourself if you knew that you were about to be stricken blind. I am， however， sure that if you actually faced that fate your eyes would open to things you had never seen before， storing up memories for the long night ahead. You would use your eyes as never before. Everything you saw would become dear to you. Your eyes would touch and embrace every object that came within your range of vision. Then， at last， you would really see， and a new world of beauty would open itself before you.
I who am blind can give one hint to those who see—one admonition to those who would make full use of the gift of sight： use your eyes as if tomorrow you would be stricken blind. And the same method can be applied to the other senses. Hear the music of voices， the song of a bird， the mighty strains of an orchestra， as if you would be stricken deaf tomorrow. Touch each object you want to touch as if tomorrow your tactile sense would fail. Smell the perfume of flowers， taste with relish each morsel， as if tomorrow you could never smell and taste again. Make the most of every sense： glory in all the facets of pleasure and beauty which the world reveals to you through the several means of contact which Nature provides. But of all the senses. I am sure that sight must be the most delightful.
23
Love Between Parent and Child
父母与孩子之间的爱
The infant， at the moment of birth， would feel the fear of dying， if a gracious fate did not preserve it from any awareness of the anxiety involved in the separation from mother， and from intra-uterine existence. Even after being born， the infant is hardly different from what it was before birth； it cannot recognize objects， it is not yet aware of itself， and of the world as being outside of itself. It only feels the positive stimulation of warmth and food， and it does not yet differentiate warmth and food from its source： mother. Mother is warmth， mother is food， mother is the euphoric state of satisfaction and security. This state is one of narcissism， to use Freud’s term. The outside reality， persons and things， have meaning only in terms of their satisfying or frustrating the inner state of the body. Real is only what is within； what is outside is real only in terms of my needs—never in terms of its own qualities or needs.
