It's attacking my nerve-centres, eating them up, bit by bit, cell by cell--from the pain." "The motor-centres, too," I suggested.
"So it would seem; and the curse of it is that I must lie here, conscious, mentally unimpaired, knowing that the lines are going down, breaking bit by bit communication with the world.

I cannot see, hearing and feeling are leaving me, at this rate I shall soon cease to speak; yet all the time I shall be here, alive, active, and powerless." "When you say _you_ are here, I'd suggest the likelihood of the soul," I said.
"Bosh!" was his retort.

"It simply means that in the attack on my brain the higher psychical centres are untouched.

I can remember, I can think and reason.

When that goes, I go.