I’ve always been fascinated by doppelgangers. (I’m sure this reveals something shocking about my psyche, please feel free to mail in your ideas!) I really enjoyed “Blindness”, so I was thrilled to discover Saramago having a go at doppelgangers.

This is going to be great! I thought.

I was wrong.

I’ve never seen a theme so utterly unexplored. A veritable Dickensian waif of an idea wandering aimlessly through the void. The author set up what might have been an interesting story, brought in a few characters, and then we all sat there waiting for something to happen… discretely checking our watches now and then. You could almost hear the Musak and the rustle of Nixon-era magazines. Strangely, Saramago was in the waiting room too. He entertained us passably with his occasional narration, but he gave the very distinct impression of a man putting in time. Like community service for a series of parking violations.

Much as I liked the device of the narrator, (who frankly, was the only one in the book with any personality or sense of humor–in fact, he was the only rounded character in the whole thing…) As I was saying, much as l liked the narrator, he certainly couldn’t fill, never mind redeem the book.

I wonder if the Nobel Prize people are slapping their foreheads. It’s much easier to give prizes to the dead — fewer surprises. It’s an odd thing that no matter what rubbish a Nobel winner comes up with, for the rest of his life he’s got this massive endorsement. I wonder if the Nobel committee ever tried to take the prize back? Or perhaps threaten authors with notes attached to bricks flung through windows: “The next one better have character arcs or say goodbye to your garden gnomes!”

Verdict: A terrible disappointment. Embarrassingly bad ending!

(Sometimes, after a book, I scoot around on the web to see what other people thought. Looks like a hell of a lot of other people were unimpressed as well.)

Wherein Oliver Sacks hangs out with different people who have various neurological disorders. One essay per person, seven in all — fascinating stuff.

I’ve always had a weakness for anything brain-related. (Probably because I’m so fond of my own.) And I’ve always enjoyed Oliver Sacks. How can you not be fond of a man who raises ferns?

One of the essays that really stuck with me was the one about the painter who lost the ability to see color. And it wasn’t even that simple–not a world of black and white, but of unprocessed wavelengths which he described as nightmarish and alien.

Two other artists Sacks devotes essays to are Franco Magnani and Stephen Wiltshire (an “artistic autistic savant”) — both of whom have an astounding visual memory.

Another essay is devoted to Temple Grandin, who is a biologist and engineer famous for her work with animals; specifically, she designs more humane slaughterhouses. As a realistic vegetarian, I think this is honorable work. She has had an incredible influence on the industry and its treatment of animals.

All of these people have lives very different from the “ordinary”, whatever that might really be. Oliver Sacks pulls us in as close as he himself can get and shows us glimpses of these unusual experiences of the world. And in doing so, makes us rethink our own.