Free My Body in Nine Parts by Raymond Federman

cry especially when I see starving children. Starving African children for instance that are shown on the television news to make us feel guilty because of our good life.
    I knew hunger when I was a child, and often saw my mother with tears in her eyes because she could not give us enough to eat, to my sisters and I, because we were so poor. My father, who was an artist, couldn’t earn enough money from his work to feed his family, and there were times when we stood in line at the soup kitchen. So today I cry for starving children.
    But that’s not what I wanted to tell you. I wanted to tell you about my eyes, and not those of my mother.
    Still, I can’t help myself from telling you how beautiful my mother’s big black eyes were. Eyes always full of tears because she was so unhappy before her eyes were brutally closed. But that’s another story.
    I should tell you the color of my eyes. They are brown. But when I look at them closely in the mirror I can see a blue-gray circle around the pupils. My wife says that they are hazel.
    My father’s eyes were blue-gray. Even more gray than blue. Could it be that I also have my father’s eyes?
    I don’t remember when exactly my eyes began to see less clearly, less precisely, and I had to get glasses. Especially for reading and writing.
    It would now be impossible for me to write what I am in the process of telling you without my reading glasses.
    This does not mean that I am losing my sight. On the contrary, I think I apprehend the world better without my glasses, even if what I see seems blurred.
    One can see things clearly by instinct. One can even see better with one’s eyes closed. It’s a matter of concentration. When I close my eyes, I see the beautiful big black eyes of my mother.
    Like everybody else’s my eyes have seen a lot. A lot of beautiful things, and a lot of ugly ones. But as Proust said so well:
    Par l’art seulement nous pouvons sortir de nous, savoir ce que voit un autre de cet univers qui n’est pas le même que le notre, et dont les paysages nous seraient restés aussi inconnus que ceux qu’il peut y avoir dans la lune .
    It is certainly with my fictions that I was able to see that other universe in which I also exist.

 
MY HANDS

    For me sight does not suffice. I must also touch what I see. At least, that’s always true for me. I am a being who not only enjoys looking at things but needs to touch them, to caress them, to feel their substance.
    If I see an object. Any object. Anywhere. Immediately I have to touch it. Instinctively, unconsciously, my hand reaches for that object.
    There is certainly a harmonious rapport between the sense of sight and the sense of touch. Between the eyes and the hands.
    For instance, if I see a table. A wooden table, or made of glass or marble, I slide my hand on the surface of the table. I must stroke it to sense its smoothness and texture. I have to do it.
    And I like to touch the back of the chairs around the table. It’s instinctive. I cannot prevent myself. It is as if my eyes were guiding my hand toward the object I contemplate.
    And if the table is set for an elegant dinner, I cannot resist, I pick up one of the fine china plates, or a silver fork, or one of the crystal wine goblets, and I bring it close to my face so that my eyes can better enjoy it while my fingers appreciate its delicate quality.
    My eyes and my hands like to feel together. To feel visually and manually at the same time, as though the one was an extension of the other.
    That is why, for instance, if I see a beautiful flower, immediately I want to touch its petals. And in the case of a flower, my nose also wants to enjoy its fragrance. In this way, not only are my eyes and hand involved with this flower, but also my nose. I might even say that my ears listen to that flower quiver when I touch it. I would like to taste it. To eat it. To lick it’s petals. In other words, I would like