Touch (n.) is one hand touching the other that touches it, as if space were touching itself through man, a structure in which man is only an aspect.
Touch (n.) is remembered through the hand: the feel of wool on our back comes back to us as if the hand had touched it.
Touch (n.) needs a kind of fullness, a tactile field in which local impressions gather into a shape the way notes become stepping-stones in a melody.
Touch (n.) wraps out-of-reach things in a halo of possible contact that lets them count for a healthy person; Schneider can knock on a door only if he can actually reach it.
Touch (n.) never lets us forget that we reach the world through our body: sight lets us dream we are everywhere and nowhere, while touch clings to our skin and never quite becomes an object.
Touch (n.) pure and on its own is a pathological phenomenon: in a healthy person no sense works alone, and illness does not reveal touch's essence but changes the whole of experience.
Touch (n.) ing (n.) is not seeing: for touch the tactile object is never wholly present in each part, and only the cured blind man's first look reveals simultaneity at a distance.