As the sun drops into the afternoon sky, the shadow undrapes itself and stretches out toward the horizon, long and thin, and far behind me….
I want to say here again what I've said already to Dr. Strauss. No one is in any way to blame for what has happened.
This experiment was carefully prepared, extensively tested on animals, and statistically validated.
When they decided to use me as the first human test, they were reasonably certain that there was no physical danger involved.
There was no way to foresee the psychological pitfalls. I don't want anyone to suffer because of what happens to me.
The only question now is: How much can I hang on to?
September 15
Nemur says my results have been confirmed. It means that the flaw is central and brings the entire hypothesis into question.
Someday there might be a way to overcome this problem, but that time is not yet.
I have recommended that no further tests be made on human beings until these things are clarified by additional research on animals.
It is my own feeling that the most successful line of research will be that taken by the men studying enzyme imbalances.
As with so many other things, time is the key factor—speed in discovering the deficiency, and speed in administering hormonal substitutes.
I would like to help in that area of research, and in the search for radioisotopes that may be used in local cortical control, but I know now that I won't have the time.
September 17
Becoming absent minded.
Put things away on my desk or in the drawers of the lab tables, and when I can't find them I lose my temper and flare up at everyone.
First signs?
Algernon died two days ago.
I found him at four thirty in the morning when I came back to the lab after wandering around down at the waterfront—on his side, stretched out in the corner of his cage.
As if he were running in his sleep.
Dissection shows that my predictions were right.
Compared to the normal brain, Algernon's had decreased in weight and there was a general smoothing out of the cerebral convolutions as well as a deepening and broadening of brain fissures.
It's frightening to think that the same thing might be happening to me right now.
Seeing it happen to Algernon makes it real. For the first time, I'm afraid of the future.
I put Algernon's body into a small metal container and took him home with me.
I wasn't going to let them dump him into the incinerator.
It's foolish and sentimental, but late last night I buried him in the back yard.
I wept as I put a bunch of wild flowers on the grave.
September 21
I'm going to Marks Street to visit my mother tomorrow.
A dream last night triggered off a sequence of memories, lit up a whole slice of the past and the important thing is to get it down on paper quickly before I forget it because I seem to forget things sooner now.
It has to do with my mother, and now—more than ever—I want to understand her, to know what she was like and why she acted the way she did.
I mustn't hate her.
I've got to come to terms with her before I see her so that I won't act harshly or foolishly.
September 27
I should have written this down right away, because it's important to make this record complete.
I went to see Rose three days ago.
Finally, I forced myself to borrow Burt's car again.
I was afraid, and yet I knew I had to go.
At first when I got to Marks Street I thought I had made a mistake. It wasn't the way I remembered it at all. It was a filthy street.
Vacant lots where many of the houses had been torn down.
On the sidewalk, a discarded refrigerator with its face ripped off, and on the curb an old mattress with wire intestines hanging out of its belly.
Some houses had boarded up windows, and others looked more like patched-up shanties than homes.
I parked the car a block away from the house and walked.
There were no children playing on Marks Street—not at all like the mental picture I had brought with me of children everywhere, and Charlie watching them through the front window (strange that most of my memories of the street are framed by the window, with me always inside watching the children play). Now there were only old people standing in the shade of tired porches.
As I approached the house, I had a second shock.
My mother was on the front stoop, in an old brown sweater, washing the ground floor windows from the outside even though it was cold and windy.
Always working to show the neighbors what a good wife and mother she was.
The most important thing had always been what other people thought—appearances before herself or her family. And righteous about it. Time and again Matt had insisted that what others thought about you wasn't the only thing in life. But it did no good.
Norma had to dress well; the house had to have fine furniture; Charlie had to be kept inside so that other people wouldn't know any-thing was wrong.