Somewhere amongst all my Web pages is a commentary on how I've come to think of my body. It's drifted from complete entity to a collection of cells to genetic angst. Here's a passage I stumbled across while flipping through "The Real Science behind the X-Files" by Anne Simon, PhD., that fits well into that thread:
Many of the 100 trillion hardworking cells in your body have very short life spans. One cell dividing to give two is the only way to replace the billions of cells in your body that die every day so that you can live. Skin cells last only between one and thirty-four days and the cells lining your stomach give out after only two days. Not happy with your current liver? If the cells are healthy and able to divide, you'll have a new liver every five hundred days. Some cells in your body don't divide and cannot be replaced. Nerve cells, such as your brain cells, and heart muscle cells are designed to lat a lifetime, but the manufacturer's warranty doesn't cover self-destructive activities.
"Great God! what have I turned into? What right have you people to clutter up my life, steal my time, probe my soul, suckle my thoughts, have me for your companion, confidant, and information bureau? What do you take me for? Am I an entertainer on salary, required every evening to play an intellectual farce under your stupid noses? Am I a slave, bought and paid for , to crawl on my belly in front of you idlers and lay at your feet all that I do and all that I know?Am I a wench in a brothel who is called upon to lift her skirts or take off her chemise at the bidding of the first man in a tailored suit who comes along?
"I am a man who would live an heroic life and make the world more endurable in his own sight. If, in some moment of weakness, of relaxation, of need, I blow off steam - a bit of red-hot rage cooled off in words - a passionate dream, wrapped and tied in imagery - well, take it or leave it . . .
but don't bother me!
"I am a free man - and I need my freedom. I need to be alone. I need to ponder my shame and my despair in seclusion; I need the sunshine and the paving stones of the streets without companions, without conversation, face to face with myself, with only the music of my heart fr company. What do you want of me? When I have something to say, I put it in print. When I have something to give, I give it. Your prying curiosity turns my stomach! Your compliments humiliate me! Your tea poisons me! I owe nothing to anyone. I would be responsible to God alone - if he existed!"
-Papini ("Tropic of Cancer", Arthur Miller)
