I think I’m finished subvocalizing, this evening. It’s not necessary anymore. Doors are opening and long and unused feelings and ideas are stepping out.
The opening traces of a plan are forming. They must have been gestating for months… designs for a lockpick for a very large cage. Lessons to be taught to Old Joe Clark.
There’s a lot of work ahead, some of it quite dangerous. I’m not sure exactly how to get started and it may wind up taking me a long, long way from here.
But I promise you, Lise—if you want me to—I’ll take you with me when I go.
AUTHOR’S NOTES
The senses referred to in the title are those of smell and the inner mind. There have been experiments showing vividly how closely connected odors are to our recollections. Sometimes a faint aroma will trigger the most vivid of memories. Once in a while, it goes the other way around.
I wanted to write about a character who wasn’t sure what was real anymore, where his assumed identity began and where the horrifying past left off. This is the result.
I believe the one greatest moral contribution of Western civilization has been the concept of a difference between subjective and objective reality… the perpetual warning that says, “Watch out! You may only think you know what you know.”
Human beings have a tremendous capacity for fooling themselves, for imagining slights, crafting false memories, denying faults, believing ideologies. Science fights back with the Uncertainty Principle, which has proven that no human can ever have perfect knowledge. Unless you can demonstrate it in a repeatable experiment, it cannot be treated as a fact. Sure, you can play with an idea without proving it. Metaphors, allegories, and science fiction stories are all great fun, and useful, too.
But until other people can regularly duplicate your experimental results, it’s best to smile and remember to say “maybe.”
“To thine own self be true …” said Polonius. An honest person always double-checks, for it is all too easy to lie to the one who trusts you the most, yourself.
“Senses” is one of five stories which debut in this volume. It is also the oldest story here, begun long before my first novel, Sundiver. Every year since, I would dig it out and poke away at it for a while, then put it away again. It’s one of the most difficult pieces I’ve ever done.
The following story might very well be the hardest of all.