Anatomy of an Illness as Perceived by the Patient by Norman Cousins Read Free Book Online Page A

raced across the keyboard with dazzling speed. His entire body seemed fused with the music; it was no longer stiff and shrunken but supple and graceful and completely freed of its arthritic coils.
    Having finished the piece, he stood up by himself, far straighter and taller than when he had come into the room. He walked to the breakfast table with no trace of a shuffle, ate heartily, talked animatedly, finished the meal, then went for a walk on the beach.
    After an hour or so, he came back to the house and worked on his correspondence until lunch. Then he napped. When he rose, the stoop and the shuffle and the clenched hands were back again. On this particular day, a camera and recording crew from public television were scheduled to arrive in mid-afternoon. Anticipating the visit, Don Pablo said he wished some way could be found to call it off; he didn’t feel up to the exertion of the filming, with its innumerable and inexplicable retakes and the extreme heat of the bright lights.
    Marta, having been through these reluctances before, reassured Don Pablo, saying she was certain he would be stimulated by the meeting. She reminded him that he liked the young people who did the last filming and that they would probably be back again. In particular, she called his attention to the lovely young lady who directed the recording.
    Don Pablo brightened. “Yes, of course,” he said, “it will be good to see them again.”
    As before, he stretched his arms in front of him and extended his fingers. Then the spine straightened and he stood up and went to his cello. He began to play. His fingers, hands, and arms were in sublime coordination as they responded to the demands of his brain for the controlled beauty of movement and tone. Any cellist thirty years his junior would have been proud to have such extraordinary physical command.
    Twice in one day I had seen the miracle. A man almost ninety, beset with the infirmities of old age, was able to cast off his afflictions, at least temporarily, because he knew he had something of overriding importance to do. There was no mystery about the way it worked, for it happened every day. Creativity for Pablo Casals was the source of his own cortisone. It is doubtful whether any antiinflammatory medication he would have taken would have been as powerful or as safe as the substances produced by the interaction of his mind and body.
    The process is not strange. If he had been caught up in an emotional storm, the effects would have been manifested in an increased flow of hydrochloric acid to the stomach, in an upsurge of adrenal activity, in the production of corticoids, in the increase of blood pressure, and a faster heart beat.
    But he was caught up in something else. He was caught up in his own creativity, in his own desire to accomplish a specific purpose, and the effect was both genuine and observable. And the effects on his body chemistry were no less pronounced—albeit in a positive way—than they would have been if he had been through an emotional wringer.
    Don Pablo, though delicately built, almost frail, was a giant among men in spirit and creative stature. He was buoyantly sympathetic in manner, managing to involve himself very quickly in the concerns or problems of his friends or visitors. His responses were unhurried, genuine, full. He showed me some of his original Bach manuscripts, and he remarked that Bach meant more to him than any other composer.
    This was only one of several things he had in common with Schweitzer, I remarked.
    â€œMy good friend Albert Schweitzer shares with me the belief that Bach is the greatest of all composers,” Don Pablo said, “but we like Bach for entirely different reasons. Schweitzer sees Bach in complex architectural terms; he acclaims him as a master who reigns supreme over the great and diverse realm of music. I see Bach as a great romantic. His music stirs me, helps me to feel fully alive. When I wake up each morning