...of amnesia

A man dressed in black appeared, a long-haired fellow, whose piercing eyes looked down upon me out of an intense and friendly face. The others hovered about him, their eyes anxious as he alternately peered at me and consulted my chart. Then he scribbled something on a large card and thrust it before my eyes:

  WHAT IS YOUR NAME?

A tremor shook me; it was as though he had suddenly given a name to, had organised the vagueness that drifted through my head, and I was overcome with swift shame. I realised that I no longer knew my own name. I shut my eyes and shook my head with sorrow. Here was the first warm attempt to communicate with me and I was failing. I tried again, plunging into the blackness of my mind. It was no use; I found nothing but pain. I saw the card again and he pointed slowly to each word:

                                                        WHAT ... IS... YOUR ... NAME?

I tried desperately, diving below the darkness until I was limp with fatigue. It was as though a vein had been opened and my energy syphoned away; I could only stare back mutely. But with an irritating burst of activity he gestured for another card and wrote:

                                                               WHO ... ARE ... YOU?

[Invisible Man, Ellison, R.]