2816. But what was he to make of the fact that the object he was admiring had been created by a machine, a machine capable of rendering an image without the encumbrance of a mind conscious of what it was doing?
Mr. Hunt was so upset by this experience that he suddenly stopped in
the middle of his walk home and began talking out loud to himself, right
there in the middle of the sidewalk. It was Saturday afternoon, in a
later September in 1848, in London, England. Mr. Hunt was dressed in a
black three piece suit with a cravat and a top hat.
Many other men dressed exactly the same as Mr. Hunt were passing him to
and fro, some with walking sticks and some without, others with black
umbrellas. But he was the only one standing still and giving a lecture
to himself, as if in an auditorium, addressing an attentive audience.
This is what he said.
2819. “The thing that bothers me,” he began, in his light tenor voice, “ is that fact that those photographic people can make their images so quickly. They set up some kinds of machinery, there is a flash, and a few hours later they produce an image complete with all of the textures and details of reality.”