[87274] in Discussion of MIT-community interests
These 4 Things Happen Before A Heart Attack
daemon@ATHENA.MIT.EDU (Heart Attack Fighter)
Tue Aug 23 12:02:22 2016
Date: Tue, 23 Aug 2016 11:50:52 -0400
From: "Heart Attack Fighter" <heart.attack.fighter@ideasweddingstyles.com>
To: <mit-talk-mtg@charon.mit.edu>
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<p>These 4 Things Happen Before A Heart Attack<br /> the farthest pinnac=
le that overhangs the river, and down through the Lonely Heart gorge, and o=
ver the pass of the White Horse, and up to the peak of Cro' Nest, and acros=
s the rugged summit of Black Rock. At every wider outlook a strange exhilar=
ation seemed to come upon him. His spirit glowed like a live coal in the wi=
nd. He overflowed with brilliant talk and curious stories of the villages a=
nd scattered houses that we could see from our eyries. But it was not with =
me that he made his longest expeditions. They were solitary. Early on Satur=
day he would leave the rest of us, with some slight excuse, and start away =
on the mountain-road, to be gone all day. Sometimes he would not return til=
l long after dark. Then I could see the anxious look deepen on Dorothy' s f=
ace, and she would slip away down the road to meet him. But he always came =
back in good spirits, talkable and charming. It was the next day that the r=
eaction came. The black fit took him. He was silent, moody, bitter. Holding=
himself aloof, yet never giving utterance to any irritation, he seemed hal=
f-unconsciously to resent the claims of love and friendship, as if they irk=
ed him. There was a look in his eyes as if he measured us, weighed us, anal=
ysed us all as strangers. Yes, even Dorothy. I have seen her go to meet him=
with a flower in her hand that she had plucked for him, and turn away with=
her lips trembling, too proud to say a word, dropping the flower on the gr=
ass. John Graham saw it, too. He waited till she was gone; then he picked u=
p the flower and kept it. There was nothing to take offence at, nothing on =
which one could lay a finger; only these singular alternations of mood whic=
h made Keene now the most delightful of friends, now an intimate stranger i=
n the circle. The change was inexplicable. But certainly it seemed to have =
some connection, as cause or consequence, with his long, lonely walks. Once=
, when he was absent, we spoke of his remarkable fluctuations of spirit. Th=
e master labelled him. " He is an idealist, a dreamer. They are always=
uncertain." I blamed him. " He gives way too much to his moods. =
He lacks self-control. He is in danger of spoiling a fine nature." I l=
ooked at Dorothy. She defended him. " Why should he be always the same=
? He is too great for that. His thoughts make him restless, and sometimes h=
e is tired. Surely you wouldn' t have him act what he don' t feel. Why do y=
ou want him to do that?" " I don' t know," said Graham, with=
a short laugh. " None of us know. But what we all want just now is mu=
sic. Dorothy, will you sing a little for us?" So she sang " The C=
oulin," and " The Days o' the Kerry Dancin' ," and " Th=
e Hawthorn Tree," and " The Green Woods of Truigha," and &qu=
ot; Flowers o' the Forest," and " A la claire Fontaine," unt=
il the twilight was filled with peace. The boys came back to the school. Th=
e wheels of routine began to turn again, slowly and with a little friction =
at first, then smoothly and swiftly as if they had never stopped. Summer re=
ddened into autumn; autumn bronzed into fall. The maples and poplars were b=
are. The oaks alone kept their rusted crimson glory, and the cloaks of spru=
ce and hemlock on the shoulders of the hills grew dark with wintry foliage.=
Keene' s transitions of mood became more frequent and more extreme. The gu=
lf of isolation that divided him from us when the black days came seemed wi=
der and more unfathomable. Dorothy and John Graham were thrown more constan=
tly together. Keene appeared to encourage their companionship. He watched t=
hem curiously, sometimes, not as if he were jealous, but rather as if he we=
re interested in some delicate experiment. At other times he would be singu=
larly indifferent to everything, remote, abstracted, forgetful. Dorothy' s =
birthday, which fell in mid-October, was kept as a holiday. In the morning =
everyone had some little birthday gift for her, except Keene. He had forgot=
ten the birthday entirely. The shadow of disappointment that quenched the b=
rightness of her face was pitiful. Even he could not be blind to it. He flu=
shed as if surprised, and hesitated a moment, evidently in conflict with hi=
mself. Then a look of shame and regret came into his eyes. He made some exc=
use for not going with us to the picnic, at the Black Brook Falls, with whi=
ch the day was celebrated. In the afternoon, as we all sat around the camp-=
fire, he came swinging through the woods with his long, swift stride, and g=
oing at once to Dorothy laid a little brooch of pearl and opal in her hand.=
" Will you forgive me?" he said. " I hope this is not too l=
ate. But I lost the train back from Newburg and walked home. I pray that yo=
u may never know any tears but pearls, and that there may be nothing change=
able about you but the opal." " Oh, Edward!" she cried, &quo=
t; how beautiful! Thank you a thousand times. But I wish you had been with =
us all day. We have missed you so much!" For the rest of that day simp=
licity and clearness and joy came back to us. Keene was at his best, a lead=
er of friendly merriment, a master of good-fellowship, a prince of delicate=
chivalry. Dorothy' s loveliness unfolded like a flower in the sun. But the=
Indian summer of peace was brief. It was hardly a week before Keene' s old=
moods returned, darker and stranger than ever. The girl' s unconcealable b=
ewilderment, her sense of wounded loyalty and baffled anxiety, her still lo=
ok of hurt and wondering tenderness, increased from day to day. John Graham=
' s temper seemed to change, suddenly and completely. From the best-humoure=
d and most careless fellow in the world, he became silent, thoughtful, irri=
table toward everyone except Dorothy. With Keene he was curt and impatient,=
avoiding him as much as possible, and when they were together, evidently s=
truggling to keep down a deep dislike and rising anger. They had had sharp =
words when they were alone, I was sure, but Keene' s coolness seemed to gro=
w with Graham' s heat. There was no open quarrel. One Saturday evening, Gra=
ham came to me. " You have seen what is going on here?" he said. =
" Something, at least," I answered, " and I am very sorry fo=
r it. But I don' t quite understand it." " Well, I do; and I' m g=
oing to put an end to it. I' m going to have it out with Ned Keene. He is b=
reaking her heart." " But are you the right one to take the matte=
r up?" " Who else is there to do it?" " Her father.&quo=
t; " He sees nothing, comprehends nothing. ' Practical type--poetic ty=
pe--misunderstandings sure to arise--come together after a while each suppl=
y the other' s deficiencies.' Cursed folly! And the girl so unhappy that sh=
e can' t tell anyone. It shall not go on, I say. Keene is out on the road n=
ow, taking one of his infernal walks. I' m going to meet him." " =
I' m afraid it will make trouble. Let me go with you." " The trou=
ble is made. Come if you like. I' m going now." The night lay heavy up=
on the forest. Where the road dipped through the valley we could hardly see=
a rod ahead of us. But higher up where the way curved around the breast of=
the mountain, the woods were thin on the left, and on the right a sheer pr=
ecipice fell away to the gorge of the brook. In the dim starlight we saw Ke=
ene striding toward us. Graham stepped out to meet him. " Where have y=
ou been, Ned Keene?" he cried. The cry was a challenge. Keene lifted h=
is head and stood still. Then he laughed and took a step forward. " Ta=
king a long walk, Jack Graham,," he answered. " It was glorious. =
You should have been with me. But why this sudden question?" " Be=
cause your long walk is a pretence. You are playing false. There is some wo=
man that you go to see at West Point, at Highland Falls, who knows where?&q=
uot; Keene laughed again. " Certainly you don' t know, my dear fellow;=
and neither do I. Since when has walking become a vice in your estimation?=
You seem to be in a fierce mood. What' s the matter?" " I will t=
ell you what' s the matter. You have been acting like a brute to the girl y=
ou profess to love." " Plain words! But between friends frankness=
is best. Did she ask you to tell me?" " No! You know too well sh=
e would die before she would speak. You are killing her, that is what you a=
re doing with your devilish moods and mysteries. You must stop. Do you hear=
? You must give her up." " I hear well enough, and it sounds like=
a word for her and two for yourself. Is that it?" " Damn you,&qu=
ot; cried the younger man, " let the words go! we' ll settle it this w=
ay" ----and he sprang at the other' s throat. Keene, cool and well-bra=
ced, met him with a heavy blow in the chest. He recoiled, and I rushed betw=
een them, holding Graham back, and pleading for self-control. As we stood t=
hus, panting and confused, on the edge of the cliff, a singing voice floate=
d up to us from the shadows across the valley. It was Herrick' s song again=
: A heart as soft, a heart as kind, A heart as sound and free Is in the who=
le world thou canst find, That heart I' ll give to thee. " Come, gentl=
emen," I cried, " this is folly, sheer madness. You can never dea=
l with the matter in this way. Think of the girl who is singing down yonder=
What would happen to her, what would she suffer, from scandal, from her o=
wn feelings, if either of you should be killed, or even seriously hurt by t=
he other? There must be no quarrel between you." " Certainly,&quo=
t; said Keene, whose poise, if shaken at all, had returned, " certainl=
y, you are right. It is not of my seeking, nor shall I be the one to keep i=
t up. I am willing to let it pass. It is but a small matter at most." =
I turned to Graham--" And you?" He hesitated a little, and then s=
aid, doggedly " On one condition." " And that is?" &quo=
t; Keene must explain. He must answer my question." " Do you acce=
pt?" I asked Keene. " Yes and no!" he replied. " No! to=
answering Graham' s question. He is not the person to ask it. I wonder tha=
t he does not see the impropriety, the absurdity of his meddling at all in =
this affair. Besides, he could not understand my answer even if he believed=
it. But to the explanation, I say, Yes! I will give it, not to Graham, but=
to you. I make you this proposition. To-morrow is Sunday. We shall be excu=
sed from service if we tell the master that we have important business to s=
ettle together. You shall come with me on one of my long walks. I will tell=
you all about them. Then you can be the judge whether there is any harm in=
them." " Does that satisfy you?" I said to Graham. " Y=
es," he answered, " that seems fair enough. I am content to leave=
it in that way for the present. And to make it still more fair, I want to =
take back what I said awhile ago, and to ask Keene' s pardon for it." =
" Not at all," said Keene, quickly, " it was said in haste, =
I bear no grudge. You simply did not understand, that is all." So we t=
urned to go down the hill, and as we turned, Dorothy met us, coming out of =
the shadows. " What are you men doing here?" she asked. " I =
heard your voices from below. What were you talking about?" " We =
were talking," said Keene, " my dear Dorothy, we were talking--ab=
out walking--yes, that was it--about walking, and about views. The conversa=
tion was quite warm, almost a debate. Now, you know all the view-points in =
this region. Which do you call the best, the most satisfying, the finest pr=
ospect? But I know what you will say: the view from the little knoll in fro=
nt of Hilltop. For there, when you are tired of looking far away, you can t=
urn around and see the old school, and the linden-trees, and the garden.&qu=
ot; " Yes," she answered gravely, " that is really the view =
that I love best. I would give up all the others rather than lose that.&quo=
t; III There was a softness in the November air that brought back memories =
of summer, and a few belated daisies were blooming in the old clearing, as =
Keene and I passed by the ruins of the farm-house again, early on Sunday mo=
rning. He had been talking ever since we started, pouring out his praise of=
knowledge, wide, clear, universal knowledge, as the best of life' s joys, =
the greatest of life' s achievements. The practical life was a blind, dull =
routine. Most men were toiling at tasks which they did not like, by rules w=
hich they did not understand. They never looked beyond the edge of their wo=
rk. The philosophical life was a spider' s web--filmy threads of theory spu=
n out of the inner consciousness--it touched the world only at certain chos=
en points of attachment. There was nothing firm, nothing substantial in it.=
You could look through it like a veil and see the real world lying beyond.=
But the theorist could see only the web which he had spun. Knowing did not=
come by speculating, theorising. Knowing came by seeing. Vision was the on=
ly real knowledge. To see the world, the whole world, as it is, to look beh=
ind the scenes, to read human life like a book, that was the glorious thing=
--most satisfying, divine. Thus he had talked as we climbed the hill. Now, =
as we came by the place where we had first met, a new eagerness sounded in =
his voice. " Ever since that day I have inclined to tell you something=
more about myself. I felt sure you would understand. I am planning to writ=
e a book--a book of knowledge, in the true sense--a great book about human =
life. Not a history, not a theory, but a real view of life, its hidden moti=
ves, its secret relations. How different they are from what men dream and i=
magine and play that they are! How much darker, how much smaller, and there=
fore how much more interesting and wonderful. No one has yet written--perha=
ps because no one has yet conceived--such a book as I have in mind. I might=
call it a ' Bionopsis.' " " But surely," said I, " you=
have chosen a strange place to write it--the Hilltop School--this quiet an=
d secluded region! The stream of humanity is very slow and slender here--it=
trickles. You must get out into the busy world. You must be in the full cu=
rrent and feel its force. You must take part in the active life of mankind =
in order really to know it." " A mistake!" he cried. " =
Action is the thing that blinds men. You remember Matthew Arnold' s line: I=
n action' s dizzying eddy whurled. To know the world you must stand apart f=
rom it and above it; you must look down on it." " Well, then,&quo=
t; said I, " you will have to find some secret spring of inspiration, =
some point of vantage from which you can get your outlook and your insight.=
" He stopped short and looked me full in the face. " And that,&qu=
ot; cried he, " is precisely what I have found!" Then he turned a=
nd pushed along the narrow trail so swiftly that I had hard work to follow =
him. After a few minutes we came to a little stream, flowing through a grov=
e of hemlocks. Keene seated himself on the fallen log that served for a bri=
dge and beckoned me to a place beside him. " I promised to give you an=
explanation to-day--to take you on one of my long walks. Well, there is on=
ly one of them. It is always the same. You shall see where it leads, what i=
t means. You shall share my secret--all the wonder and glory of it! Of cour=
se I know my conduct, has seemed strange to you. Sometimes it has seemed st=
range even to me. I have been doubtful, troubled, almost distracted. I have=
been risking a great deal, in danger of losing what I value, what most men=
count the best thing in the world. But it could not be helped. The risk wa=
s worth while. A great discovery, the opportunity of a lifetime, yes, of an=
age, perhaps of many ages, came to me. I simply could not throw it away. I=
must use it, make the best of it, at any danger, at any cost. You shall ju=
dge for yourself whether I was right or wrong. But you must judge fairly, w=
ithout haste, without prejudice. I ask you to make me one promise. You will=
suspend judgment, you will say nothing, you will keep my secret, until you=
have been with me three times at the place where I am now taking you."=
; By this time it was clear to me that I had to do with a case lying far ou=
tside of the common routine of life; something subtle, abnormal, hard to me=
asure, in which a clear and careful estimate would be necessary. If Keene w=
as labouring under some strange delusion, some disorder of mind, how could =
I estimate its nature or extent, without time and study, perhaps without ex=
pert advice? To wait a little would be prudent, for his sake as well as for=
the sake of others. If there was some extraordinary, reality behind his my=
sterious hints, it would need patience and skill to test it. I gave him the=
promise for which he asked. At once, as if relieved, he sprang up, and cry=
ing, " Come on, follow me!" began to make his way up the bed of t=
he brook. It was one of the wildest walks that I have ever taken. He turned=
aside for no obstacles; swamps, masses of interlacing alders, close-woven =
thickets of stiff young spruces, chevaux-de-frise of dead trees where wind-=
falls had mowed down the forest, walls of lichen-crusted rock, landslides w=
here heaps of broken stone were tumbled in ruinous confusion--through every=
thing he pushed forward. I could see, here and there, the track of his form=
er journeys: broken branches of witch-hazel and moose-wood, ferns trampled =
down, a faint trail across some deeper bed of moss. At mid-day we rested fo=
r a half-hour to eat lunch. But Keene would eat nothing, except a little pe=
llet of some dark green substance that he took from a flat silver box in hi=
s pocket. He swallowed it hastily, and stooping his face to the spring by w=
hich he had halted, drank long and eagerly. " An Indian trick," s=
aid he, shaking the drops of water from his face. " On a walk, food is=
a hindrance, a delay. But this tiny taste of bitter gum is a tonic; it spu=
rs the courage and doubles the strength--if you are used to it. Otherwise I=
should not recommend you to try it. Faugh! the flavour is vile." He r=
insed his mouth again with water, and stood up, calling me to come on. The =
way, now tangled among the nameless peaks and ranges, bore steadily southwa=
rd, rising all the time, in spite of many brief downward curves where a ste=
ep gorge must be crossed. Presently we came into a hard-wood forest, open a=
nd easy to travel. Breasting a long slope, we reached the summit of a broad=
, smoothly rounding ridge covered with a dense growth of stunted spruce. Th=
e trees rose above our heads, about twice the height of a man, and so thick=
that we could not see beyond them. But, from glimpses here and there, and =
from the purity and lightness of the air, I judged that we were on far high=
er ground than any we had yet traversed, the central comb, perhaps, of the =
mountain-system. A few yards ahead of us, through the crowded trunks of the=
dwarf forest, I saw a gray mass, like the wall of a fortress, across our p=
ath. It was a vast rock, rising from the crest of the ridge, lifting its to=
p above the sea of foliage. At its base there were heaps of shattered stone=
s, and deep crevices almost like caves. One side of the rock was broken by =
a slanting gully. " Be careful," cried my companion, " there=
is a rattlers' den somewhere about here. The snakes are in their winter qu=
arters now, almost dormant, but they can still strike if you tread on them.=
Step here! Give me your hand--use that point of rock--hold fast by this bu=
sh; it is firmly rooted--so! Here we are on Spy Rock! You have heard of it?=
I thought so. Other people have heard of it, and imagine that they have fo=
und it--five miles east of us--on a lower ridge. Others think it is a peak =
just back of Cro' Nest. All wrong! There is but one real Spy Rock--here! Th=
is earth holds no more perfect view-point. It is one of the rare places fro=
m which a man may see the kingdoms of the world and all the glory of them. =
Look!" The prospect was indeed magnificent; it was strange what a vast=
enlargement of vision resulted from the slight elevation above the surroun=
ding peaks. It was like being lifted up so that we could look over the wall=
s. The horizon expanded as if by magic. The vast circumference of vision sw=
ept around us with a radius of a hundred miles. Mountain and meadow, forest=
and field, river and lake, hill and dale, village and farmland, far-off ci=
ty and shimmering water--all lay open to our sight, and over all the wester=
ing sun wove a transparent robe of gem-like hues. Every feature of the land=
scape seemed alive, quivering, pulsating with conscious beauty. You could a=
lmost see the world breathe. " Wonderful!" I cried. " Most w=
onderful! You have found a mount of vision." " Ah," he answe=
red, " you don' t half see the wonder yet, you don' t begin to appreci=
ate it. Your eyes are new to it. You have not learned the power of far sigh=
t, the secret of Spy Rock. You are still shut in by the horizon." &quo=
t; Do you mean to say that you can look beyond it?" " Beyond your=
s--yes. And beyond any that you would dream possible--See! Your sight reach=
es to that dim cloud of smoke in the south? And beneath it you can make out=
, perhaps, a vague blotch of shadow, or a tiny flash of brightness where th=
e sun strikes it? New York! But I can see the great buildings, the domes, t=
he spires, the crowded wharves, the tides of people whirling through the st=
reets--and beyond that, the sea, with the ships coming and going! I can fol=
low them on their courses--and beyond that--Oh! when I am on Spy Rock I can=
see more than other men can imagine." For a moment, strange to say, I=
almost fancied could follow him. The magnetism of his spirit imposed upon =
me, carried me away with him. Then sober reason told me that he was talking=
of impossibilities. " Keene," said I, " you are dreaming. T=
he view and the air have intoxicated you. This is a phantasy, a delusion!&q=
uot; " It pleases you to call it so," he said, " but I only =
tell you my real experience. Why it should be impossible I do not understan=
d. There is no reason why the power of sight should not be cultivated, enla=
rged, expanded indefinitely." " And the straight rays of light?&q=
uot; I asked. " And the curvature of the earth which makes a horizon i=
nevitable?" " Who knows what a ray of light is?" said he. &q=
uot; Who can prove that it may not be curved, under certain conditions, or =
refracted in some places in a way that is not possible elsewhere? I tell yo=
u there is something extraordinary about this Spy Rock. It is a seat of pow=
er--Nature' s observatory. More things are visible here than anywhere else-=
-more than I have told you yet. But come, we have little time left. For hal=
f an hour, each of us shall enjoy what he can see. Then home again to the n=
arrower outlook, the restricted life." The downward journey was swifte=
r than the ascent, but no less fatiguing. By the time we reached the school=
, an hour after dark, I was very tired. But Keene was in one of his moods o=
f exhilaration. He glowed like a piece of phosphorus that has been drenched=
with light.</p>=20
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