His visit inaugurated a ceremony which was to be observed every morning so long as I stayed at the nursing-home. Pulling his gold watch (it had rococo Victorian initials engraved on the back) fiom his waistcoat-pocket, he would hold it up to my ear. “Can you hear the tick?” I would shake my head. My head was thick with bandages. My father never failed to pay his early morning visit or to administer the ritual of the watch. It gave me the first clue to the discovery I was to make in the course of the next few weeks: that I had completely lost my hearing. One would think that deafness must have been self-evident fiom the first. On the contrary, it took me some time to find out what had happened. I had to deduce the fact of deafness through a process of reasoning. I did not notice it. No one inhabits a world of total silence: I had "heard" the doctor's car driving me to the hospital, while the tread of the nurse coming into my room used to wake me in the morning — how was l to know? Nobody told me. It was made more difficult to perceive because fiom the very first my eyes had unconsciously begun to translate motion into sound. My mother spent most of the day beside me and I understood everything she said. Why not? Without knowing it I had been reading her mouth all my life. When she spoke I seemed to hear her voice. It was an illusion which persisted even after I knew it was an illusion. My father, my cousin, everyone I had known retained phantasmal voices. That they were imaginary, the projections of habit and memory, did not come home to me until I had left the hospital. One day I was talking with my cousin and he, in a moment of inspiration, covered his mouth with his hand as he spoke. Silence! Once and for all I understood that when I could not see I could not hear.