Flowers For Algernon

Even a feeble-minded man wants to be like other men. A child may not know how to feed itself, or what to eat, yet it knows hunger.

“I’m not close to him.” He looked at me defiantly. “But he’s put his whole life into this. He’s no Freud or Jung or Pavlov or Watson, but he’s doing something important and I respect his dedication—maybe even more because he’s just an ordinary man trying to do a great man’s work, while the great men are all busy making bombs.”

It’s your body and your brain—and your life, even though you weren’t able to make much use of it. I don’t have the right to take it away from you. Nobody does. Who’s to say that my light is better than your darkness? Who’s to say death is better than your darkness? Who am I to say? . . .

Although we know the end of the maze holds death (and it is something I have not always known—not long ago the adolescent in me thought death could happen only to other people), I see now that the path I choose through that maze makes me what I am. I am not only a thing, but also a way of being—one of many ways—and knowing the paths I have followed