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
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.
Thinker has the look of a man who, now that he has
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."