The patient, Titus Ronet, is the most amazing creature I've ever encountered. I am humbled by his intellect. He reads my motivations, intuitions, my every poise, long before I can consciously guard them.
How can I help a man whose grasp of this world is far beyond my own imagination's compass?
How can I help?
How can I help?
Despite his intellectual fortitude, he does not appear to hold it as a thing to be weighted. He doesn't seem to reckon its very presence. The pity is I can't even hold tightly to that observation, for he may well be playing me by some hidden methodology of appearance over substance. He could very easily be doing that to me.
Our job is to help, to shine a light in the dark recesses of a plagued mind. We build up. We tear down the impure. We build up. But Titus will only ever be convicted by his own rationale.
Maybe that is the trick; I should let nature speak for itself. Let him convict himself by the functioning craft of this natural world. I can't do that work. Something greater than I and greater than him will have to.
He's experienced the darkest of nights. He's felt reams of pain, physical, mental and spiritual, in a manner I will never know.
After 10 hours of sessions, I told him directly. I said plainly, Titus, you are a broken piece of equipment. Surely you know this.
He stared right back at me. There was no fear in his eyes. No shame. All I could catch was the slightest inch of smug certainty.
He replied, And what would my machinery be used for, if it was never broken?
I, of course, had no answer.
Mercifully, he cleared me of any duty...
Titus spoke. There's nothing to be done. Here, in this room, or there.
Can I really give an answer? Love my wife. Work hard at my job. Raise a family. Do those things add up to meaning?
If Titus Ronet cannot be unbroke, then I believe it is the world entire that lay in shards.