The Fifth Sense The Fifth Sense
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Photo by William Krause/Unsplash
Wellbeing

The Fifth Sense

On the Primacy of Touch
Maciej Topolski
Reading
time 9 minutes

Taste, smell, sight, hearing, touch—together, they form a sensory web that envelopes us with stimuli. The human senses don’t operate separately or in a vacuum. When we touch another living being, it is always a reciprocal experience.

Touch tends to be considered one of the five human senses, but perhaps it extends to non-humans, too. When a friend’s greyhound greets me by gently biting my hand, both of us touch each other. The chair that’s supporting my body as I write these words is undoubtedly touching my buttocks, thighs, and back. And what about the sunbeams that brush across my face as I walk to the bakery each morning? It may seem there is nothing simpler, more obvious, or intuitive than touch, but upon deeper reflection—on its place in society, in relationships, and in the culture that shapes us—doubts begin to suddenly pile up, definitions crumble, and boundaries, once so strictly defined, lose their meaning.

All in Your Head?

The separation of the human body into five senses has been a part of the Western belief system for over two thousand years and is the foundation of knowledge about human sensuality—imparted from kindergarten through college, considered when discussing literature, design, architecture, and philosophy, as well as during casual conversations at the family table. According to this division, each sense is associated with a specific organ: sight is the eyes, hearing is the ears, smell is the nose, and taste is the tongue. Thus the majority of

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"Women and an Infant Boy in a Public Bath House", Utagawa Toyokuni I, ca. 1799; MET
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In Japan, a country rife with contradictions, touch is considered the most important of all the senses. This is despite the fact that touch is decidedly absent from the public sphere.

When I visited Tokyo 15 years ago, my long-time friend Michiko invited me to dinner. The train running from the city centre to Saitama, Tokyo’s one million-strong commuter town, was massively delayed. When I finally reached the tiny flat of Michiko, her husband Satoshi and their two children, it was so late that they both exclaimed: “You must stay the night!” And so I stayed. After dinner, Satoshi poured us a glass of a home-made distillate of salty, fermented umeboshi plums. Michiko disappeared with the children in a small bathroom, in front of which there were two rows of soft, textile slippers.

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