Quotes from Jean-Dominique Bauby

My diving bell becomes less oppressive, and my mind takes flight like a butterfly. There is so much to do. You can wander off in space or in time, set out for Tierra del Fuego or for King Midas's court. You can visit the woman you love, slide down beside her and stroke her still-sleeping face.

The identity badge pinned to Sandrine's white tunic says "Speech Therapist," but it should read "Guardian Angel.

Castaways on the shores of loneliness

My diving bell becomes less oppressive, and my mind takes flight like a butterfly. There is so much to do. You can wander off in space or in time, set out for Tierra del Fuego or for King Midas's court.

Are you there, Jean-Do?' she asks anxiously over the air. And I have to admit that at times I do not know any more.

You can handle the wheelchair," said the occupational therapist, with a smile intended to make the remark sound like good news, whereas to my ears it had the ring of a life sentence.

What demon could have induced people to line a whole room with orange fabric?

Had I been blind and deaf, or does it take the glare of disaster to show a person's true nature?

In the past it was known as a 'massive stroke' and you simply died. But improved resuscitation techniques have now prolonged and refined the agony. You survive, but you survive with what is so aptly known as 'locked-in syndrome'.

Speech therapy is an art that deserves to be more widely known. You cannot imagine the acrobatics your tongue mechanically performs in order to produce all the sounds of a language.

Åžimdi dönüp bakt???mda sanki tüm hayat?m bu ucu ucuna kaç?rd???m ÅŸeylerin bir listesi, sonunu bildiÄŸim ama bir türlü kazanan tarafa oynayamad???m bir yar?? gibi geliyor.

Under the physical therapist's gaze, I am a Tour de France long shot on the verge of pulling off a record-setting victory. Success soothes my aching muscles. I am a phenomenal downhill skier. I can still hear the roar of the crowd on the slope and the singing of the wind in my ears. I was miles ahead of the favorites. I swear!

Mysterious paradox: time, motionless here, gallops out there. In my contracted world, the hours drag on but the months flash by.

I could spend whole days at Cinecittà. There, I am the greatest director of all time. On the town side, I reshoot the close-ups for Touch of Evil. Down at the beach, I rework the dolly shots for Stagecoach, and offshore I re-create the storm rocking the smugglers of Moonfleet.

Like the bath, my old clothes could easily bring back poignant, painful memories. But I see in the clothing a symbol of continuing life. And proof that I still want to be myself. If I must drool, I may as well drool on cashmere.

And then one afternoon as I confided my woes to her likeness, an unknown face interposed itself between us. Reflected in the glass I saw the head of a man who seemed to have emerged from a vat of formaldehyde. His mouth was twisted, his nose damaged, his hair tousled, his gaze full of fear. One eye was sewn shut, the other goggled like the doomed eye of Cain. For a moment I stared at that dilated pupil, before I realized it was only mine.

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I need to feel strongly, to love and to admire, just as desperately as I need to breathe. A letter from a friend, a Balthus painting on a postcard, a page of Saint-Simon, give meaning to the passing hours. But to keep my mind sharp, to avoid descending into resigned indifference, I maintain a level of resentment and anger, neither too much nor to little, just a s a pressure cooker has a a safety valve to keep it from exploding.

I shed a few tears as we passed the corner café where I used to drop in for a bite. I can weep discreetly. People think my eye is watering.

Ever since then, whenever I go through the main hall, I detect a hint of amusement in the empress's smile.

Sometimes the phone interrupts our work, and I take advantage of Sandrine's presence to be in touch with loved ones, to intercept and catch passing fragments of life, the way you catch a butterfly.

Some evenings I have the impression that Grandpapa Noirtier patrols our corridors in a century-old wheelchair sadly in need of a drop of oil. To foil the decrees of fate, I am now planning a vast saga in which the key witness is not a paralytic but a runner. You never know. Perhaps it will work.

I need to feel strongly, to love and to admire, just as desperately as I need to breathe. A letter from a friend, a Balthus painting on a postcard, a page of Saint-Simon, give meaning to the passing hours.

Se sarbatoreste ziua tatilor. Inainte de accident, nu simteam nevoia sa trecem in calendarul nostru si aceasta intalnire fortata, dar, acum, petrecem impreuna toata ziua asta simbolica poate tocmai pentru a demonstra ca o caricatura, o umbra, o frantura de tata ramane, totusi, un tata".