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The morning was like any other. The scholar rose late and, with difficulty, made fresh tea and toast, put this breakfast on the table near her chair, and settled down to start her day of work. She poured her tea, then looked down at the papers that were the basis for the article she was writing. Only this time, she couldn’t see the words. She blinked. She took off her glasses. Nothing. The words were like blots of mud upon the page.

This was the experience of a Victorian scholar I know who has been diagnosed with macular degeneration (the dry kind, she told me wryly, in the tone of someone ordering a martini who doesn’t like to drink). She’s someone I’ve been close to for years, a fascinating expert in her field whose riveting stories of research and primary source detective work keep me at her house visiting for entire days. Her life—and she’s more than 80 years old—has been based on research and the fiction that covers her shelves (including some early and first edition Dickens and Coleridge).

For a person whose internal organs are in such excellent condition (it’s just her joints and that minor part of the human physique called “eyes” that are the problem), this is simply cruel. Especially for a Victorian. It’s precisely something you’d find in late Trollope. I haven’t told her that yet, but when I do, I’m sure our conversation will last hours. But our greatest hope in this situation is in a medium distant from the Victorian age, yet one that would have delighted Victorians, who adored the modern: the computer. Its monitor, at least, on which much of her work can live, is still her friend. And this means her research can continue. For now.