THREE
Vesalius and De Humani Corporis Fabrica
I stare at the bookshelf of my parents’ library, trying to decide which
volume of the World Book Encyclopedia I want to explore next. My dad is
an academic veterinarian, and although we don’t have a lot of money, my
family, like so many in 1976, has decided to “invest in the future” and buy
a home encyclopedia. It’s the greatest invention in the world to me:
twenty-two inches of information, alphabetized and condensed, containing,
as advertised, a world of knowledge at my fingertips. In the days since the
treasured series arrived, I’ve spent hours leafing through the books,
reading about the Appalachian Trail, the Congressional Medal of Honor,
and flags of the world.
I reach for Volume 8, with the letter H on the spine. I’m not looking for
anything in particular, just waiting for something to grab my attention. As
I plop down on our sunflower-festooned canvas couch, I thumb the pages
to survey the topics. Letting the pages fall open near the back of the book I
am arrested with wonder. Unlike all the other shiny paper pages, here are
four clear plastic acetate sheets, each representing a layer of the human
body.
The first human form has no skin, and gazes left. The right side of his
body, closest to the book’s spine, has the muscles intact over the chest,
abdomen, right arm, and leg. His left side bears only the rib cage painted
on the first sheet, and I linger over his lungs and guts, enthralled. Turning
the page, I see inside the front of his body, its entire rib cage and muscles
visible. The front of the second sheet shows only the muscles of the left
arm, but reveals the lungs, liver, stomach, and intestines, all glistening and
moist. Every organ is numbered, and the corresponding legend makes a
light blue column along the edges. Turning the second page, to my great
pleasure, I find the brain, visible within its bony home, the skull.