By Salma Abuelatta
Warning: This article contains spoilers for Flowers for Algernon.
I love to walk through Lincoln Inn Fields every morning and hear the grit of the cobblestone path with the mud between its cracks, clatter against my sneakers. To hear the tree branches swaying as birds hop between them, gleefully and carelessly chirping. In the middle of such a lively city and university, Lincoln Inn Fields is a microcosm of undisturbed reflection.
When I first arrived in London, I was astonished by its vibrancy. My world was exponentially expanding and I was overwhelmed with the sense that every corner was brimming with opportunity. I felt that same excitement and sense of opportunity in those around me. And just like the birds in the trees, everyone around me also seemed to be buzzing with life and personality. There I was in the middle of that cobblestone path, surrounded by beauty, life, and an opportunity to full-heartedly pursue my passions and cultivate myself.
So, why did I feel so empty?
To escape from that reality, I lost myself in a novel.
Flowers for Algernon by Daniel Keyes follows Charlie, a mentally disabled man, on his journey to acquire intelligence through an experimental surgery, documented in a series of progress reports.
Before the surgery, Charlie looked at everyone around him in awe. He was aware of his inability to comprehend the extent of their worlds. He was aware that to others, he was merely an abnormality at the periphery of their lives.
Part of the beauty of storytelling is how the experiences of characters who are wholly different from you can so authentically capture your emotions. I can never know what it truly feels like to be mentally disabled in our fast-paced world, but I think we all understand what it means to feel as though you are an abnormality, lying stagnant whilst others flourish. While the possibilities of my world expanded, so did my sense of insufficiency when I realised how few of those possibilities I had explored.
When you begin to feel left behind, there tends to be two responses. You can either remain paralysed, encumbered by the futility of attempting to exert yourself and the impermanence of your achievements, or you can risk the difficulty of seizing for that sliver of a chance that you will successfully do the things you love.
Charlie chose the latter when he decided to pursue the surgery. And for a time, he succeeded. He rapidly developed and became a capable academic, generating original research. He states:
“I’m living at a peak of clarity and beauty I never knew existed.”
Yet, this success was temporary and his mind began to deteriorate rapidly to its former state. After cultivating himself so thoroughly, feeling peaks of joy that were previously out of his reach, Charlie lost the mind that had become the foundation of his identity.
Perhaps that was also the reason why I remained paralysed for months. I was simultaneously overwhelmed by the intensity of pursuing what I love, whilst also cognisant of the transitory nature of my efforts. Charlie’s ending is often read as a tragedy as he dedicated his entire being to something that was rapidly ripped away: himself. His regression was analogous to the death of the person he forged. Still, despite being aware this was a potential outcome of his surgery, Charlie pursued it anyway.
We may all eventually revert to dust and it is natural to grieve that loss. But maybe that is OK. Even if our efforts are ultimately futile, we can still be content with simply being driven by the hope that we come across rare moments of clarity and beauty. That moment when you are researching for a project and your mind pieces all the fragments together into a compelling idea. That moment when you are in the midst of your friends and you pause as you realise how loved you feel.
The hope is that we can immerse ourselves in what we love and that we share these things with others in meaningful ways. When I look around me at LSE, I see how others are overburdened by deadlines, but simultaneously overflowing with energy as they meet their friends or join in activities around campus that closely align with their passions. I see that. I see that effervescent hope.
We may not all reach such a peak, and even if we do it certainly does not last. It may be near impossible to achieve all the goals that float around in our minds or find the ultimate answer to all our problems. But, maybe the answer is in the attempt.
Every morning, I still choose to walk through Lincoln Inn Fields. I take that path slightly hopeful that I will see something gorgeous that day. Sometimes I am too distracted because I am late for class. But when I get to slow down and focus, I can see traces of different emerging greens returning to the trees as we transition from winter to spring.
Illustration by Chiara Guigou
