Space is at a premium in Paris, and one of the early challenges Professor F faced upon arriving in the city was lack of it. As the newly appointed director of the Department of Cognitive Studies at one of France’s most prestigious centres of higher learning, he knew that his young and expanding unit would soon outgrow the 250 square metres that had been allocated to it, and that it was his job to find room for the overspill.

Before long his gaze turned towards the window in his new office, at the back of the building, towards the garden beyond. Next door to his department was the Department of Decorative Arts, and rising majestically out of the greenery directly behind it was a shiny, curvy postmodern structure, the 1998 design of Philippe Starck with Luc Arsène-Henry Jr. Directly behind his own department was a sad, peeling prefab, which stood unoccupied and neglected. An idea took shape in his head: demolish the prefab and get Starck to put something chic in its place. The new building would provide a certain aesthetic continuity and a welcome boost to his people’s morale.

The money was there; it was simply a question of getting permission. When the College’s director gave the project her blessing F thought he had cleared the biggest hurdle. But he hadn’t reckoned with the land registry, or rather with the functionary at the College who had gone searching for the paperwork therein. ‘It’s impossible,’ she told him flatly. Being of the school of thought that nothing is impossible, F felt his hackles rise. ‘What do you mean?’ he asked her. ‘The building doesn’t exist,’ she replied, with great sang froid.

The prefabricated pavilion had been constructed in the years before, during or immediately after the Second World War, she explained, and either no document had been created to prove its existence, or the document had since been lost or destroyed. F argued with her, but soon found himself ensnared in a nightmarish loop of faultless logic: the building was not officially there, therefore permission could not be given to knock it down. Since nobody wanted to waste money doing up a building that didn’t exist, it was sinking slowly into disrepair.

Slyly, F asked what would happen when it became a health hazard, given that it was on the College’s territory and people occasionally entered it. The functionary replied that the health and safety people would have to be informed, and it would then be up to them to take it up with the land registry. She couldn’t speculate on the outcome of their discussions.

F, an Englishman, spoke fluent French. But at this point in the conversation he learned a valuable new word in the French lexicon: dérogation. This is how the French get things done; it’s a sharp knife for slashing through red tape. When a bureaucratic obstacle prevents a person from doing what he wants, the unwritten rules of French culture allow him to ask that an exception be made in his case. Naturally he has to have good grounds for appealing, and the appeal process is not quick.

F lodged his dérogation, sat back and waited. He was prepared to wait for as long as it took, but other exigencies weighed on him, namely the need to find space for his new recruits. In the end, he was forced to abandon his postmodern dream. The spare money went towards the refurbishment of the pavilion. When it was complete, some philosophers moved in. They are still there, mulling over intangible ideas in an intangible building that everyone can see, but nobody can prove exists.

To read the other stories from the ANONthology, click here.

Eric Ramsey hasn’t spoken since he was in a car crash at the age of 19, eight years ago, but scientists think they have devised a way to give him back his voice.

Their approach is so close to the one I describe in my novel, The Quick (out in paperback in March), that reading Ramsey’s story made my spine tingle. Jonathan Brumberg of Boston University and colleagues have surgically implanted wireless electrodes just beneath the surface of this brain, in a region which is responsible for generating speech. The idea is that when he imagines speaking, the electrodes detect the pattern of activity of brain cells in this area, and turn it into synthesised speech that matches his thoughts.

After Bauby suffered his stroke in 1995, he was left with the ability to blink his left eye. A secretary sat by his bed, reading out an alphabet that had been rearranged according to the letters’ frequency of use, and Bauby would blink at the letter he wanted. By this painstaking process, they constructed a book. How technology has advanced in a decade.

But wait: Ramsey hasn’t spoken yet. In November Brumberg announced that he was confident his team could recognise the sound he was thinking of 80 per cent of the time. The next step was to let Ramsey hear for himself the sound their device generated. By giving him feedback in real time, they hope he will be able to tune his thoughts to produce a sound more closely resembling the one he wants. Once he has built up a big enough repertoire (back in November, he had only a few vowels), he’ll be ready to practise the art of conversation.

The concept of feedback is interesting. When a baby is born, most of its actions are reflex, but with time it learns to control and direct those actions. It learns to link cause and effect. To take an early example, if it sucks while its mouth is clamped on its mother’s breast, it is likely to receive milk. Thus the baby learns to suck when it is hungry. Feedback can be positive or negative, reinforcing an action or not, but without it there is no learning. The reason congenitally deaf people speak differently to hearing people is that they have never heard their own voices (or anyone else’s). They have no notion of what speech sounds like, only what it looks like, and they produce an approximation based mainly on that visual information.

Now, consider a locked-in patient who, by virtue of being completely paralysed, has received no feedback from the world since they entered that state. In the case of my character, we’re talking a decade. Is it conceivable that such a person might revert to the newborn condition, and forget how to control their own actions? In 2006, a group of German researchers led by psychologist Niels Birbaumer described the case of a 46-year-old German woman who might have done just that.

She had been diagnosed with the degenerative disease amyotrophic lateral sclerosis, and by the time Birbaumer saw her, she had been locked-in for a year. The researchers started to train her to use their own version of a brain-computer interface, which involved sticking electrodes to her scalp, but she was not able to shape her brain signals in the way the device required. It occurred to the researchers that she might have more success if the electrodes were implanted into her brain, closer to the source of the signals, but to perform that operation they needed her consent. Since she couldn’t give it, their hands were tied.

One of Birbaumer’s colleagues came to the rescue. Passing an electronics store one day, she spied a medical device for measuring the pH of saliva, and had an idea. They trained the patient to change the acidity of her spit by imagining either the taste of lemon or the taste of milk. She learned to push the pH one way to say “yes”, the other to say “no”, and using this simple method gave her consent to the operation. Three hours later, she lost the ability to change her salivary pH at will. The operation went ahead, but she was still unable to gain control over her brain activity.

Birbaumer fears that, after a certain time, locked-in patients may lose the capacity to control anything voluntarily. Bauby was spared this ultimate humiliation, as was my fictional locked-in patient, and both were therefore able to invite outsiders into their rich, and much altered, mental worlds. The early indications are that Ramsey might have been lucky too. Fingers crossed that he regains the power of speech before it is too late.

I was to curious to know if a person who had been diagnosed with so-called locked-in syndrome, who found themselves imprisoned in their own bodies, could ever come to terms with modern medicine’s equivalent of being buried alive. Given a choice between life in those straitened circumstances and a painless death, what would they choose?

To me, an able-bodied person with the use of all my faculties, the answer seems obvious. But the members of the French Association of Locked-In Syndrome (ALIS) disagree with me. When surveyed a couple of years ago, only four out of 300 of them said they would opt for euthanasia. The rest desperately wanted to live.

If you’re wondering how those people communicated their choice, the answer is that modern technology made it possible for them. There are various devices already available, that convert the slightest muscular twitch into words, and more sophisticated ones on the way that bypass the muscles, translating thought directly into action. Thanks to this technology, those people aren’t strictly locked in, but they’re as close to it as they can be while still letting us know their thoughts.

The findings of the ALIS survey haunted me for a long time before I sat down to write my novel, and they still do. I think they reveal something fundamental about human nature. We are immensely adaptable. We can come to terms with the most horrific situations. And something else: we cannot imagine what we might feel like in that situation, until we are in it. Perhaps this has been overlooked in the debate over euthanasia and assisted suicide.

I remember hearing a Holocaust survivor saying that she had crossed a line which separated her from the rest of humanity—the ones who had never seen the inside of a concentration camp—and that as long as she lived, she could never go back. Neither could those on the other side of the line ever cross to hers. There are some people’s shoes we just cannot put ourselves into.

Scientists who study locked-in syndrome have told me that there is a pattern in the attitudes of such patients. Those who are paralysed suddenly, due to a stroke or a road accident say, tend to be less accepting of their situation than those whose paralysis has come on gradually, perhaps as the result of a degenerative brain disease.

In my book, I pushed that finding to its logical conclusion. What does it mean to adapt? We change throughout our lives, but paralysis requires a much more dramatic, or at least more rapid, adaptation. Perhaps you literally become another person. When can you stop adapting? At what point does life in those circumstances become bearable, even enriching? I guess it might be when you maneouvre yourself into a position in which you can still make choices, or you believe you can.

Jean-Dominique Bauby, who wrote The Diving Bell and the Butterfly after a stroke left him locked in, found some measure of equanimity by escaping into his memory and imagination. Perhaps in describing his mental life to us, he was trying to convey the secret that he shared with the majority of the respondents to the ALIS survey. A person who has learned to live in their imagination can, in theory at least, lead a far richer life than those of us who are trapped in reality. In imagination, after all, anything is possible.