Cathedral
Raymond Carver
1983
This blind man, an old friend of my wife’s, he was
on his way to spend the night. His wife had died. So
he was visiting the dead wife’s relatives in
Connecticut. He called my wife from his in-laws’.
Arrangements were made. He would come by train, a
five-hour trip, and my wife would meet him at the
station. She hadn’t seen him since she worked for him
one summer in Seattle ten years ago. But she and the
blind man had kept in touch. They made tapes and
mailed them back and forth. I wasn’t enthusiastic
about his visit. He was no one I knew. And his being
blind bothered me. My idea of blindness came from
the movies. In the movies, the blind moved slowly
and never laughed. Sometimes they were led by
seeing-eye dogs. A blind man in my house was not
something I looked forward to
That summer in Seattle she had needed a job. She
didn’t have any money. The man she was going to
marry at the end of the summer was in officers’
training school. He didn’t have any money, either.
But she was in love with the guy, and he was in love
with her, etc. She’d seen something in the paper:
HELP WANTED–Reading to Blind Man, and a
telephone number. She phoned and went over, was
hired on the spot. She’d worked with this blind man
all summer. She read stuff to him, case studies,
reports, that sort of thing. She helped him organize
his little office in the county social-service
department. They’d become good friends, my wife
and the blind man. How do I know these things? She
told me. And she told me something else. On her last
day in the office, the blind man asked if he could
touch her face. She agreed to this. She told me he
touched his fingers to every part of her face, her
nose–even her neck! She never forgot it. She even
tried to write a poem about it. She was always trying
to write a poem. She wrote a poem or two every year,
usually after something really important had
happened to her.
When we first started going out together, she
showed me the poem. In the poem, she recalled his
fingers and the way they had moved around over her
face. In the poem, she talked about what she had felt
at the time, about what went through her mind when
the blind man touched her nose and lips. I can
remember I didn’t think much of the poem. Of course,
I didn’t tell her that. Maybe I just don’t understand
poetry. I admit it’s not the first thing I reach for when
I pick up something to read.
Anyway, this man who’d first enjoyed her favors,
the officer-to-be, he’d been her childhood sweetheart.
So okay. I’m saying that at the end of the summer she
let the blind man run his hands over her face, said
goodbye to him, married her childhood etc., who was
now a commissioned officer, and she moved away
from Seattle. But they’d kept in touch, she and the
blind man. She made the first contact after a year or
so. She called him up one night from an Air Force
base in Alabama. She wanted to talk. They talked. He
asked her to send him a tape and tell him about her
life. She did this. She sent the tape. On the tape, she
told the blind man about her husband and about their
life together in the military. She told the blind man
she loved her husband but she didn’t like it where
they lived and she didn’t like it that he was a part of
the military-industrial thing. She told the blind man
she’d written a poem and he was in it. She told him
that she was writing a poem about what it was like to
be an Air Force officer’s wife. The poem wasn’t
finished yet. She was still writing it. The blind man
made a tape. He sent her the tape. She made a tape.
This went on for years. My wife’s officer was posted
to one base and then another. She sent tapes from
Moody AFB, McGuire, McConnell, and finally
Travis, near Sacramento, where one night she got to
feeling lonely and cut off from people she kept losing
in that moving-around life. She got to feeling she
couldn’t go it another step. She went in and
swallowed all the pills and capsules in the medicine
chest and washed them down with a bottle of gin.
Then she got into a hot bath and passed out.
But instead of dying, she got sick. She threw up.
Her officer–why should he have a name? he was the
childhood sweetheart, and what more does he want?-came home from somewhere, found her, and called
the ambulance. In time, she put it all on a tape and
sent the tape to the blind man. Over the years, she put
all kinds of stuff on tapes and sent the tapes off
lickety-split. Next to writing a poem every year, I
think it was her chief means of recreation. On one
tape, she told the blind man she’d decided to live
away from her officer for a time. On another tape,
she told him about her divorce. She and I began
going out, and of course she told her blind man about
it. She told him everything, or so it seemed to me.
Once she asked me if I’d like to hear the latest tape
from the blind man. This was a year ago. I was on the
tape, she said. So I said okay, I’d listen to it. I got us
drinks and we settled down in the living room. We
made ready to listen. First she inserted the tape into
the player and adjusted a couple of dials. Then she
pushed a lever. The tape squeaked and someone
began to talk in this loud voice. She lowered the
volume. After a few minutes of harmless chitchat, I
heard my own name in the mouth of this stranger,
this blind man I didn’t even know! And then this:
“From all you’ve said about him, I can only conclude-” But we were interrupted, a knock at the door,
something, and we didn’t ever get back to the tape.
Maybe it was just as well. I’d heard all I wanted to.
Now this same blind man was coming to sleep in
my house.
“Maybe I could take him bowling,” I said to my
wife. She was at the draining board doing scalloped
potatoes. She put down the knife she was using and
turned around.
“If you love me,” she said, “you can do this for me.
If you don’t love me, okay. But if you had a friend,
any friend, and the friend came to visit, I’d make him
feel comfortable.” She wiped her hands with the dish
towel.
“I don’t have any blind friends,” I said.
“You don’t have any friends,” she said. “Period.
Besides,” she said, “goddamn it, his wife’s just died!
Don’t you understand that? The man’s lost his wife!”
I didn’t answer. She’d told me a little about the
blind man’s wife. Her name was Beulah. Beulah!
That’s a name for a colored woman.
“Was his wife a Negro?” I asked.
“Are you crazy?” my wife said. “Have you just
flipped or something?” She picked up a potato. I saw
it hit the floor, then roll under the stove. “What’s
wrong with you?” she said. “Are you drunk?”
“I’m just asking,” I said.
Right then my wife filled me in with more detail
than I cared to know. I made a drink and sat at the
kitchen table to listen. Pieces of the story began to
fall into place.
Beulah had gone to work for the blind man the
summer after my wife had stopped working for him.
Pretty soon Beulah and the blind man had themselves
a church wedding. It was a little wedding–who’d
want to go to such a wedding in the first place?–just
the two of them, plus the minister and the minister’s
wife. But it was a church wedding just the same. It
was what Beulah had wanted, he’d said. But even
then Beulah must have been carrying the cancer in
her glands. After they had been inseparable for eight
years–my wife’s word, inseparable–Beulah’s health
went into a rapid decline. She died in a Seattle
hospital room, the blind man sitting beside the bed
and holding on to her hand. They’d married, lived and
worked together, slept together–had sex, sure–and
then the blind man had to bury her. All this without
his having ever seen what the goddamned woman
looked like. It was beyond my understanding.
Hearing this, I felt sorry for the blind man for a little
bit. And then I found myself thinking what a pitiful
life this woman must have led. Imagine a woman
who could never see herself as she was seen in the
eyes of her loved one. A woman who could go on
day after day and never receive the smallest
compliment from her beloved. A woman whose
husband could never read the expression on her face,
be it misery or something better. Someone who could
wear makeup or not–what difference to him? She
could, if she wanted, wear green eye-shadow around
one eye, a straight pin in her nostril, yellow slacks,
and purple shoes, no matter. And then to slip off into
death, the blind man’s hand on her hand, his blind
eyes streaming tears–I’m imagining now–her last
thought maybe this: that he never even knew what
she looked like, and she on an express to the grave.
Robert was left with a small insurance policy and a
half of a twenty-peso Mexican coin. The other half of
the coin went into the box with her. Pathetic.
So when the time rolled around, my wife went to
the depot to pick him up. With nothing to do but
wait–sure, I blamed him for that–I was having a
drink and watching the TV when I heard the car pull
into the drive. I got up from the sofa with my drink
and went to the window to have a look.
I saw my wife laughing as she parked the car. I
saw her get out of the car and shut the odor. She was
still wearing a smile. Just amazing. She went around
to the other side of the car to where the blind man
was already starting to get out. This blind man,
feature this, he was wearing a full beard! A beard on
a blind man! Too much, I say. The blind man reached
into the back seat and dragged out a suitcase. My
wife took his arm, shut the car door, and, talking all
the way, moved him down the drive and then up the
steps to the front porch. I turned off the TV. I
finished my drink, rinsed the glass, dried my hands.
Then I went to the door.
My wife said, “I want you to meet Robert. Robert,
this is my husband. I’ve told you all about him.” She
was beaming. She had this blind man by his coat
sleeve.
The blind man let go of his suitcase and up came
his hand. I took it. He squeezed hard, held my hand,
and then he let it go.
“I feel like we’ve already met,” he boomed.
“Likewise,” I said. I didn’t know what else to say.
Then I said, “Welcome. I’ve heard a lot about you.”
We began to move then, a little group, from the porch
into the living room, my wife guiding him by the arm.
The blind man was carrying his suitcase in his other
hand. My wife said things like, “To your left here,
Robert. That’s right. Now watch it, there’s a chair.
That’s it. Sit down right here. This is the sofa. We just
bought this sofa two weeks ago.”
I started to say something about the old sofa. I’d
liked that old sofa. But I didn’t say anything. Then I
wanted to say something else, small-talk, about the
scenic ride along the Hudson. How going to New
York, you should sit on the right-hand side of the
train, and coming from New York, the left-hand side.
“Did you have a good train ride?” I said. “Which
side of the train did you sit on, by the way?”
“What a question, which side!” my wife said.
“What’s it matter which side?” she said.
“I just asked,” I said.
“Right side,” the blind man said. “I hadn’t been on
a train in nearly forty years. Not since I was a kid.
With my folks. That’s been a long time. I’d nearly
forgotten the sensation. I have winter in my beard
now,” he said. “So I’ve been told, anyway. Do I look
distinguished, my dear?” the blind man said to my
wife.
“You look distinguished, Robert,” she said.
“Robert,” she said. “Robert, it’s just so good to see
you.”
My wife finally took her eyes off the blind man
and looked at me. I had the feeling she didn’t like
what she saw. I shrugged.
I’ve never met, or personally known, anyone who
was blind. This blind man was late forties, a heavyset, balding man with stooped shoulders, as if he
carried a great weight there. He wore brown slacks,
brown shoes, a light-brown shirt, a tie, a sports coat.
Spiffy. He also had this full beard. But he didn’t use a
cane and he didn’t wear dark glasses. I’d always
thought dark glasses were a must for the blind. Fact
was, I wished he had a pair. At first glance, his eyes
looked like anyone else’s eyes. But if you looked
close, there was something different about them. Too
much white in the iris, for one thing, and the pupils
seemed to move around in the sockets without his
knowing it or being able to stop it. Creepy. As I
stared at his face, I saw the left pupil turn in toward
his nose while the other made an effort to keep in one
place. But it was only an effort, for that eye was on
the roam without his knowing it or wanting it to be.
I said, “Let me get you a drink. What’s your
pleasure? We have a little of everything. It’s one of
our pastimes.”
“Bub, I’m a Scotch man myself,” he said fast
enough in this big voice.
“Right,” I said. Bub! “Sure you are. I knew it.”
He let his fingers touch his suitcase, which was
sitting alongside the sofa. He was taking his bearings.
I didn’t blame him for that.
“I’ll move that up to your room,” my wife said.
“No, that’s fine,” the blind man said loudly. “It can
go up when I go up.”
“A little water with the Scotch?” I said.
“Very little,” he said.
“I knew it,” I said.
He said, “Just a tad. The Irish actor, Barry
Fitzgerald? I’m like that fellow. When I drink water,
Fitzgerald said, I drink water. When I drink whiskey,
I drink whiskey.” My wife laughed. The blind man
brought his hand up under his beard. He lifted his
beard slowly and let it drop.
I did the drinks, three big glasses of Scotch with a
splash of water in each. Then we made ourselves
comfortable and talked about Robert’s travels. First
the long flight from the West Coast to Connecticut,
we covered that. Then from Connecticut up here by
train. We had another drink concerning that leg of the
trip.
I remembered having read somewhere that the
blind didn’t smoke because, as speculation had it,
they couldn’t see the smoke they exhaled. I thought I
knew that much and that much only about blind
people. But this blind man smoked his cigarette down
to the nubbin and then lit another one. This blind man
filled his ashtray and my wife emptied it.
When we sat down at the table for dinner, we had
another drink. My wife heaped Robert’s plate with
cube steak, scalloped potatoes, green beans. I
buttered him up two slices of bread. I said, “Here’s
bread and butter for you.” I swallowed some of my
drink. “Now let us pray,” I said, and the blind man
lowered his head. My wife looked at me, her mouth
agape. “Pray the phone won’t ring and the food
doesn’t get cold,” I said.
We dug in. We ate everything there was to eat on
the table. We ate like there was no tomorrow. We
didn’t talk. We ate. We scarfed. We grazed that table.
We were into serious eating. The blind man had right
away located his foods, he knew just where
everything was on his plate. I watched with
admiration as he used his knife and fork on the meat.
He’d cut two pieces of meat, fork the meat into his
mouth, and then go all out for the scalloped potatoes,
the beans next, and then he’d tear off a hunk of
buttered bread and eat that. He’d follow this up with a
big drink of milk. It didn’t seem to bother him to use
his fingers once in a while, either.
We finished everything, including half a
strawberry pie. For a few moments, we sat as if
stunned. Sweat beaded on our faces. Finally, we got
up from the table and left the dirty places. We didn’t
look back. We took ourselves into the living room
and sank into our places again. Robert and my wife
sat on the sofa. I took the big chair. We had us two or
three more drinks while they talked about the major
things that had come to pass for them in the past ten
years. For the most part, I just listened. Now and then
I joined in. I didn’t want him to think I’d left the room,
and I didn’t want her to think I was feeling left out.
They talked of things that had happened to them–to
them!–these past ten years. I waited in vain to hear
my name on my wife’s sweet lips: “And then my dear
husband came into my life”–something like that. But
I heard nothing of the sort. More talk of Robert.
Robert had done a little of everything, it seemed, a
regular blind jack-of-all-trades. But most recently he
and his wife had had an Amway distributorship, from
which, I gathered, they’d earned their living, such as
it was. The blind man was also a ham radio operator.
He talked in his loud voice about conversations he’d
had with fellow operators in Guam, in the Philippines,
in Alaska, and even in Tahiti. He said he’d have a lot
of friends there if he ever wanted to go visit those
places. From time to time, he’d turn his blind face
toward me, put his hand under his beard, ask me
something. How long had I been in my present
position? (Three years.) Did I like my work? (I
didn’t.) Was I going to stay with it? (What were the
options?) Finally, when I thought he was beginning
to run down, I got up and turned on the TV.
My wife looked at me with irritation. She was
heading toward a boil. Then she looked at the blind
man and said, “Robert, do you have a TV?”
The blind man said, “My dear, I have two TVs. I
have a color set and a black-and-white thing, an old
relic. It’s funny, but if I turn the TV on, and I’m
always turning it on, I turn on the color set. It’s funny,
don’t you think?”
I didn’t know what to say to that. I had absolutely
nothing to say to that. No opinion. So I watched the
news program and tried to listen to what the
announcer was saying.
“This is a color TV,” the blind man said. “Don’t
ask me how, but I can tell.”
“We traded up a while ago,” I said.
The blind man had another taste of his drink. He
lifted his beard, sniffed it, and let it fall. He leaned
forward on the sofa. He positioned his ashtray on the
coffee table, then put the lighter to his cigarette. He
leaned back on the sofa and crossed his legs at the
ankles.
My wife covered her mouth, and then she yawned.
She stretched. She said, “I think I’ll go upstairs and
put on my robe. I think I’ll change into something
else. Robert, you make yourself comfortable,” she
said.
“I’m comfortable,” the blind man said.
“I want you to feel comfortable in this house,” she
said.
“I am comfortable,” the blind man said.
After she’d left the room, he and I listened to the
weather report and then to the sports roundup. By
that time, she’d been gone so long I didn’t know if she
was going to come back. I thought she might have
gone to bed. I wished she’d come back downstairs. I
didn’t want to be left alone with a blind man. I asked
him if he wanted another drink, and he said sure.
Then I asked if he wanted to smoke some dope with
me. I said I’d just rolled a number. I hadn’t, but I
planned to do so in about two shakes.
“I’ll try some with you,” he said.
“Damn right,” I said. “That’s the stuff.”
I got our drinks and sat down on the sofa with him.
Then I rolled us two fat numbers. I lit one and passed
it. I brought it to his fingers. He took it and inhaled.
“Hold it as long as you can,” I said. I could tell he
didn’t know the first thing.
My wife came back downstairs wearing her pink
robe and her pink slippers.
“What do I smell?” she said.
“We thought we’d have us some cannabis,” I said.
My wife gave me a savage look. Then she looked
at the blind man and said, “Robert, I didn’t know you
smoked.”
He said, “I do now, my dear. There’s a first time
for everything. But I don’t feel anything yet.”
“This stuff is pretty mellow,” I said. “This stuff is
mild. It’s dope you can reason with,” I said. “I t
doesn’t mess you up.”
“Not much it doesn’t, bub,” he said, and laughed.
My wife sat on the sofa between the blind man and
me. I passed her the number. She took it and toked
and then passed it back to me. “Which way is this
going?” she said. Then she said, “I shouldn’t be
smoking this. I can hardly keep my eyes open as it is.
That dinner did me in. I shouldn’t have eaten so
much.”
“It was the strawberry pie,” the blind man said.
“That’s what did it,” he said, and he laughed his big
laugh. Then he shook his head.
“There’s more strawberry pie,” I said.
“Do you want some more, Robert?” my wife said.
“Maybe in a little while,” he said.
We gave our attention to the TV. My wife yawned
again. She said, “Your bed is made up when you feel
like going to bed, Robert. I know you must have had
a long day. When you’re ready to go to bed, say so.”
She pulled his arm. “Robert?”
He came to and said, “I’ve had a real nice time.
This beats tapes doesn’t it?”
I said, “Coming at you,” and I put the number
between his fingers. He inhaled, held the smoke, and
then let it go. It was like he’d been doing it since he
was nine years old.
“Thanks, bub,” he said. “But I think this is all for
me. I think I’m beginning to feel it,” he said. He held
the burning roach out for my wife.
“Same here,” she said. “Ditto. Me, too.” She took
the roach and passed it to me. “I may just sit here for
a while between you two guys with my eyes closed.
But don’t let me bother you, okay? Either one of you.
If it bothers you, say so. Otherwise, I may just sit
here with my eyes closed until you’re ready to go to
bed,” she said. “Your bed’s made up, Robert, when
you’re ready. It’s right next to our room at the top of
the stairs. We’ll show you up when you’re ready. You
wake me up now, you guys, if I fall asleep.” She said
that and then she closed her eyes and went to sleep.
The news program ended. I got up and changed the
channel. I sat back down on the sofa. I wished my
wife hadn’t pooped out. Her head lay across the back
of the sofa, her mouth open. She’d turned so that her
robe slipped away from her legs, exposing a juicy
thigh. I reached to draw her robe back over her, and it
was then that I glanced at the blind man. What the
hell! I flipped the rope open again.
“You say when you want some strawberry pie,” I
said.
“I will,” he said.
I said, “Are you tired? Do you want me to take you
up to your bed? Are you ready to hit the hay?”
“Not yet,” he said. “No, I’ll stay up with you, bub.
If that’s all right. I’ll stay up until you’re ready to turn
in. We haven’t had a chance to talk. Know what I
mean? I feel like me and her monopolized the
evening.” He lifted his beard and he let it fall. He
picked up his cigarettes and his lighter.
“That’s all right,” I said. Then I said, “I’m glad for
the company.”
And I guess I was. Every night I smoked dope and
stayed up as long as I could before I fell asleep. My
wife and I hardly ever went to bed at the same time.
When I did go to sleep, I had these dreams.
Sometimes I’d wake up from one of them, my heart
going crazy.
Something about the church and the Middle Ages
was on the TV. Not your run-of-the-mill TV fare. I
wanted to watch something else. I turned to the other
channels. But there was nothing on them, either. So I
turned back to the first channel and apologized.
“Bub, it’s all right,” the blind man said. “It’s fine
with me. Whatever you want to watch is okay. I’m
always learning something. Learning never ends. It
won’t hurt me to learn something tonight, I got ears,”
he said.
We didn’t say anything for a time. He was leaning
forward with his head turned at me, his right ear
aimed in the direction of the set. Very disconcerting.
Now and then his eyelids drooped and then they
snapped open again. Now and then he put his fingers
into his beard and tugged, like he was thinking about
something he was hearing on the television.
On the screen, a group of men wearing cowls was
being set upon and tormented by men dressed in
skeleton costumes and men dressed as devils. The
men dressed as devils wore devil masks, horns, and
long tails. This pageant was part of a procession. The
Englishman who was narrating the thing said it took
place in Spain once a year. I tried to explain to the
blind man what was happening.
“Skeletons,” he said. “I know about skeletons,” he
said, and he nodded.
The TV showed this one cathedral. Then there was
a long, slow look at another one. Finally, the picture
switched to the famous one in Paris, with its flying
buttresses and its spires reaching up to the clouds.
The camera pulled away to show the whole of the
cathedral rising above the skyline.
There were times when the Englishman who was
telling the thing would shut up, would simply let the
camera move around the cathedrals. Or else the
camera would tour the countryside, men in fields
walking behind oxen. I waited as long as I could.
Then I felt I had to say something. I said, “They’re
showing the outside of this cathedral now. Gargoyles.
Little statues carved to look like monsters. Now I
guess they’re in Italy. Yeah, they’re in Italy. There’s
paintings on the walls of this one church.”
“Are those fresco paintings, bub?” he asked, and he
sipped from his drink.
I reached for my glass. But it was empty. I tried to
remember what I could remember. “You’re asking me
are those frescoes?” I said. “That’s a good question. I
don’t know.”
The camera moved to a cathedral outside Lisbon.
The differences in the Portuguese cathedral compared
with the French and Italian were not that great. But
they were there. Mostly the interior stuff. Then
something occurred to me, and I said, “Something
has occurred to me. Do you have any idea what a
cathedral is? What they look like, that is? Do you
follow me? If somebody says cathedral to you, do
you have any notion what they’re talking about? Do
you know the difference between that and a Baptist
church, say?”
He let the smoke dribble from his mouth. “I know
they took hundreds of workers fifty or a hundred
years to build,” he said. “I just heard the man say that,
of course. I know generations of the same families
worked on a cathedral. I heard him say that, too. The
men who began their life’s work on them, they never
lived to see the completion of their work. In that wise,
bub, they’re no different from the rest of us, right?”
He laughed. Then his eyelids drooped again. His
head nodded. He seemed to be snoozing. Maybe he
was imagining himself in Portugal. The TV was
showing another cathedral now. This one was in
Germany. The Englishman’s voice droned on.
“Cathedrals,” the blind man said. He sat up and rolled
his head back and forth. “If you want the truth, bub,
that’s about all I know. What I just said. What I heard
him say. But maybe you could describe one to me? I
wish you’d do it. I’d like that. If you want to know, I
really don’t have a good idea.”
I stared hard at the shot of the cathedral on the TV.
How could I even begin to describe it? But say my
life depended on it. Say my life was being threatened
by an insane guy who said I had to do it or else.
I stared some more at the cathedral before the
picture flipped off into the countryside. There was no
use. I turned to the blind man and said, “To begin
with, they’re very tall.” I was looking around the
room for clues. “They reach way up. Up and up.
Toward the sky. They’re so big, some of them, they
have to have these supports. To help hold them up, so
to speak. These supports are called buttresses. They
remind me of viaducts, for some reason. But maybe
you don’t know viaducts, either? Sometimes the
cathedrals have devils and such carved into the front.
Sometimes lords and ladies. Don’t ask me why this
is,” I said.
He was nodding. The whole upper part of his body
seemed to be moving back and forth.
“I’m not doing so good, am I?” I said.
He stopped nodding and leaned forward on the
edge of the sofa. As he listened to me, he was
running his fingers through his beard. I wasn’t getting
through to him, I could see that. But he waited for me
to go on just the same. He nodded, like he was trying
to encourage me. I tried to think what else to say.
“They’re really big,” I said. “They’re massive. They’re
built of stone. Marble, too, sometimes. In those olden
days, when they built cathedrals, men wanted to be
close to God. In those olden days, God was an
important part of everyone’s life. You could tell this
from their cathedral-building. I’m sorry,” I said, “but
it looks like that’s the best I can do for you. I’m just
no good at it.”
“That’s all right, bub,” the blind man said. “Hey,
listen. I hope you don’t mind my asking you. Can I
ask you something? Let me ask you a simple question,
yes or no. I’m just curious and there’s no offense.
You’re my host. But let me ask if you are in any way
religious? You don’t mind my asking?”
I shook my head. He couldn’t see that, though. A
wink is the same as a nod to a blind man. “I guess I
don’t believe in it. In anything. Sometimes It’s hard.
You know what I’m saying?”
“Sure, I do,” he said.
“Right,” I said.
The Englishman was still holding forth. My wife
sighed in her sleep. She drew a long breath and went
on with her sleeping.
“You’ll have to forgive me,” I said. “But I can’t tell
you what a cathedral looks like. It just isn’t in me to
do it. I can’t do any more than I’ve done.”
The blind man sat very still, his head down, as he
listened to me.
I said, “The truth is, cathedrals don’t mean
anything special to me. Nothing. Cathedrals. They’re
something to look at on late-night TV. That’s all they
are.”
It was then that the blind man