I started re-reading one of my favorite English short-stories, "Flowers for Algernon". It did not take long before i felt very sad, despite knowing what the story is about already. I hadn't read it for more than a decade, and it made me sigh on account of the protagonist's will "to get smart".
In this city, like in most of Europe or other reasonably urban centers, one rarely sees people of very notably lower IQ than the average. The story i was reading is about a person who has a few points below an IQ of 70.
Last week, as i was returning on the bus from a part of the city where i probably never have been before, there was a person with a very low IQ talking to the bus-driver who very likely knew him from previous rides on that very bus. The person was possibly in his early 20s, and i think his head was shaped in a way which would imply he is suffering from Down Syndrome. I did not actually look at his body much, but i could not help listening to the characteristic fluctuation in his voice, which reminded me of preschool children and their anxious way of trying to communicate when they have something they wish to hide from the adult.
That man was at times speaking more loudly- once he suddently cursed a driver in front of the bus, due to some bad manners on the road that the bus-driver had noted shortly before that outburst- but mostly he sounded like he was aware of a risk in being in the same closed environment with a multitude of people he did not know at all.
In retrospect i wondered what exactly his life is like. Surely the anxiety does not help, but if it was not there would he be better off in the case he continued to frequently go outside and ride buses?
I can easily believe that he too would agree with the fictional protagonist of Flowers for Algeron, that if he can become smarter, that would be his dream in this life. And, of course, he cannot know that other sorts of problems can easily appear to hunt down people regardless of their normal or higher IQ, and perhaps that the face of those winged Harpies is not particularly more refined than those he has come to know so well by now, and the memories linger on in his frail and nervous tone of voice.





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