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"
Oh
,
just
to
be
alive
,
to
be
living
and
doing
,
to
be
the
biggest
bit
of
the
ferment
to
the
end
,
to
eat
you
.
But
to
die
this
way
.
"
He
shrugged
his
shoulders
,
or
attempted
to
shrug
them
,
rather
,
for
the
left
shoulder
alone
moved
.
Like
the
smile
,
the
shrug
was
twisted
.
"
But
how
can
you
account
for
it
?
"
I
asked
.
"
Where
is
the
seat
of
your
trouble
?
"
"
The
brain
,
"
he
said
at
once
.
"
It
was
those
cursed
headaches
brought
it
on
.
"
"
Symptoms
,
"
I
said
.
He
nodded
his
head
.
"
There
is
no
accounting
for
it
.
I
was
never
sick
in
my
life
.
Something
's
gone
wrong
with
my
brain
.
A
cancer
,
a
tumour
,
or
something
of
that
nature
--
a
thing
that
devours
and
destroys
.
It
's
attacking
my
nerve-centres
,
eating
them
up
,
bit
by
bit
,
cell
by
cell
--
from
the
pain
.
"
"
The
motor-centres
,
too
,
"
I
suggested
.
"
So
it
would
seem
;
and
the
curse
of
it
is
that
I
must
lie
here
,
conscious
,
mentally
unimpaired
,
knowing
that
the
lines
are
going
down
,
breaking
bit
by
bit
communication
with
the
world
.
I
can
not
see
,
hearing
and
feeling
are
leaving
me
,
at
this
rate
I
shall
soon
cease
to
speak
;
yet
all
the
time
I
shall
be
here
,
alive
,
active
,
and
powerless
.
"
"
When
you
say
you
are
here
,
I
'd
suggest
the
likelihood
of
the
soul
,
"
I
said
.
"
Bosh
!
"
was
his
retort
.
"
It
simply
means
that
in
the
attack
on
my
brain
the
higher
psychical
centres
are
untouched
.
I
can
remember
,
I
can
think
and
reason
.
When
that
goes
,
I
go
.
I
am
not
.
The
soul
?
"
