...of sickness

Twenty infant beds and five incubators that recalled electric organs. The incubator babies appeared only as blurred shapes, as though mist enshrouded them. But the babies in the beds were too naked and exposed. The poison of the glaring light had withered all of them; they were like a herd of the world's most docile cattle. Some were moving their arms and legs slightly, but even on these the diapers and white cotton nightshirts looked as heavy as lead diving suits. They gave the impression, all of them, of shackled people. There were a few whose wrists were even secured to the bed (what if it was to prevent them from scratching their own tender skins) or whose ankles were lashed down with strips of gauze (what if it was to protect the wounds made during a blood transfusion) and these infants were the more like wee, feeble prisoners. The babies silence was uniform. Was the plate glass shutting out their voices? No, like doleful turtles with no appetite, they all had their mouths closed.

[A Personal Matter, Oe, K.]