Santiago Ramón y Cajal sat alone in his home laboratory, head bowed and back hunched, his black eyes staring down the barrel of a microscope, the sole object tethering him to the outside world. His wide forehead and aquiline nose gave him the look of a distinguished, almost regal, gentleman, although the crown of his head was as bald as a monk. He had only a crowd of glass bottles for an audience, some short and stout, some tall and thin, stopped with cork and filled with white powders and colored liquids; the other chairs, piled high with journals and textbooks, left no room for anyone else to sit. The tablecloth was stained with dye, ink and blood and had drawings of forms at once. Colorful transparent slides, mounted with small pieces of nervous tissue from sacrificed animals still gummy to the touch from chemical treatments, lay scattered on the worktable.
Cajal adjusted the corners of the slide as if it were a picture frame under the microscope, using his left thumb and forefinger. With his right hand, he turned the brass knob on the side of the instrument to focus on the bodies and appendages. The brain was finally revealed to him, more than he could have imagined.
All Rights Reserved © 2024
