I chanced upon this short story Flowers for Algernon by Daniel Keyes. I found it quite absorbing but more than that it touched me on an emotional level. It is about this young man, Charlie, who is intellectually underdeveloped and who is made a participant in a psychological experiment to exponentially increase intelligence. The entire story is in the form of “progress reports”, something like diary entries, that Charlie writes from the beginning of the experiment to the end. I do not want to get into the end in case you, dear reader, feel tempted to read this story for yourself. What I found really poignant is how his new-found intelligence makes Charlie see the world in a very different light. Simple as the story is, it actually made me think about how different cognitive capacities engage with and interpret the world, and how their ability to make sense of it in one way or another might cause them to experience life itself differently.

Here’s an excerpt:

"All right! All right, you dope," shouted the owner, "don't just stand there!

Get the broom and sweep that mess up. A broom… a broom, you idiot! It's in the kitchen. Sweep up all the pieces."

The boy saw that he was not going to be punished. His frightened expression disappeared and he smiled and hummed as he came back with the broom to sweep the floor. A few of the rowdier customers kept up the remarks, amusing themselves at his expense.

"Here, sonny, over here there's a nice piece behind you ..."

"C'mon, do it again ..."

"He's not so dumb. It's easier to break 'em than to wash 'em ..."

As his vacant eyes moved across the crowd of amused onlookers, he slowly mirrored their smiles and finally broke into an uncertain grin at the joke which he obviously did not understand.

I felt sick inside as I looked at his dull, vacuous smile, the wide, bright eyes of a child, uncertain but eager to please. They were laughing at him because he was mentally retarded.

And I had been laughing at him too.

Suddenly, I was furious at myself and all those who were smirking at him. I jumped up and shouted, "Shut up! Leave him alone! It's not his fault he can't understand! He can't help what he is! But for God's sake ... he's still a human being!"

The room grew silent. I cursed myself for losing control and creating a scene. I tried not to look at the boy as I paid my check and walked out without touching my food. I felt ashamed for both of us.

How strange it is that people of honest feelings and sensibility, who would not take advantage of a man born without arms or legs or eyes—how such people think nothing of abusing a man born with low intelligence. It infuriated me to think that not too long ago I, like this boy, had foolishly played the clown.

And I had almost forgotten.

I'd hidden the picture of the old Charlie Gordon from myself because now that I was intelligent it was something that had to be pushed out of my mind. But today in looking at that boy, for the first time I saw what I had been.

I was just like him!

Only a short time ago, I learned that people laughed at me. Now I can see that unknowingly I joined with them in laughing at myself. That hurts most of all.

I have often reread my progress reports and seen the illiteracy, the childish naïveté, the mind of low intelligence peering from a dark room, through the keyhole, at the dazzling light outside. I see that even in my dullness I knew that I was inferior, and that other people had something I lacked—something denied me. In my mental blindness, I thought that it was somehow connected with the ability to read and write, and I was sure that if I could get those skills I would automatically have intelligence too.

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 of hunger.