The New Yorker:

A cook who decides to make dumplings has to really want to please whomever they’re feeding.

By Oliver Sacks

In January of 1999, I received the following letter, from a woman I will call Anna H.:

Dear Dr. Sacks,

My (very unusual) problem, in one sentence, and in non-medical terms, is:

I can’t read. I can’t read music, or anything else.

In the ophthalmologist’s office, I can read the individual letters on the eye chart down to the last line. But I cannot read words, and music gives me the same problem. I have struggled with this for years, have been to the best doctors, and no one has been able to help.

I would be ever so happy and grateful if you could find the time to see me.

Sincerely yours,
Anna H.

I phoned Mrs. H.—this seemed to be the thing to do, although I normally would have written back—because although she apparently had no difficulty writing a letter, she had said that she could not read at all. I spoke to her and arranged to see her at the neurology clinic at New York University, where I work.

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