When Sean Day hears the wail of a saxophone, he sees a writhing mass of neon-purple snakes hovering in the air. The hum of a harmonica, on the other hand, has a pleasantly greenish hue, while plunking pianos evoke a fine blue mist.
Eating is colorful too.
When Day takes a spoonful of mango sorbet, the wall before him turns lime green, rippled with cherry-red stripes. Day is no human kaleidoscope. Nor is the Taiwan-based linguist afflicted with anything you would call a disorder. Although the society is new, physicians and scholars have known about the condition for centuries. Synesthesia enjoyed a certain spiritual currency in the late 19th century, especially among the European avant-garde.