He was incapable of anticipating anything. He had exactly enough fear to keep his bones together and oiled. His eyes were excellent, and could readily distinguish between a smile and a snarl but neither could have any impact on a creature so lacking in empathy, who himself had never laughed and never snarled and so could not comprehend the feelings of his gay or angry fellows. He lived inside somewhere, apart, and the little link between word and significance hung broken. The idiot heard the sounds, but they had no meaning for him. Sometimes, nervously, they would speak to him they would speak about him to each other. He would eat and his benefactor would hurry away, disturbed, not understanding.
When someone met his eyes there would be a coin in his hand, a piece of bread, a fruit. The idiot never knew why, and never wondered. When he could do neither of these things he was fed by the first person who came face to face with him. He fed himself when he could, he went without when he could. When the white lightning struck, he was fed. Men turned away from him, women would not look, children stopped and watched him. His eyes were calm and his face was dead. Here peeped a shinbone, sharp as a cold chisel, and there in the torn coat were ribs like the fingers of a fist. The idiot lived in a black and grey world, punctuated by the white lightning of hunger and the flickering of fear.
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