Shining round face, bright white teeth, a sage's gray beard. "I'm from Western India," he said in lilting words descending from behind a dark blue turban. Evicted from where he was temporarily staying, his small pile of possessions piled on the ground, "Could I please use your phone to call a friend?" "Of course," I replied.

We stood as if depending on the location and amount of damage to the frontal lobes, there may be a marked poverty of thought, speech, emotion, or action. A kind of behavioral inertia seems to have set it. Left to himself, the frontal lobe patient does little and says little; engaged by the examiner, he's perfectly capable of waiting for something to happen.
Finally, he said, "Where's your phone?" expecting me to conjure one from a pocket.

"Your Thinker has the look of a man who, now that he has arrived
at thinking, doesn't like what he sees."
"Yes," said Auguste, "I may have been more right than I thought.
The longer I live, the more it looks as if man has come to thinking
too soon, before he is ready."

 

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