Here's an instance where I think the New York Times got it wrong. This was on the 100 Notable Books list for 1997: "A writer well known for her willingness to try almost anything relates her conversations with persons unseen as she worked the phones at a crisis-intervention center." Sounded interesting. But, there's very little -- maybe twenty pages total -- in the book about her work on the phones at the crisis-intervention center. It's all about Diane Ackerman, Modern Woman: the impeccable decor of her bathroom, her politically correct taste in vegetarian food, her ability to cycle many miles of scenic countryside, her observations of squirrel behavior. I usually read more than one book at a time, and was alternating this with a book about obituaries and the folks who write them. I found myself drifting back to the book about obits when the "blah, blah, blah" of this one started to get to me, which it did every time I picked it up. Not to knock the other book, which is genuinely good. It's more that this one didn't offer many insights on crisis intervention hotlines and the people for whom they're lifelines. I'll look for something else on the topic. It could have been my sinking attitude, but toward the end, one of the "hotline" incidents Ackerman relates struck me as fictional, something added for prurient interests. And I wondered then about the accuracy of the rest of the confidential exchanges she related. And I closed the book and put it in the pile to go back to the library. This passage got to me more than most, maybe because she also pointed to the very shortcomings that I experienced in reading:
"When I tried Prozac about five years ago, it lifted my mood as planned -- if anything, it made me feel a little better than well -- but the most extraordinary thing happened. To my surprise, it temporarily altered how I could think. For the first time in my life, I became a linear thinker. I could arrange, structure, plan, analyze, explain, be practical and efficient to my heart's content. Had I been a linear thinker beforehand, this would have amplified my natural abilities and given my work a real boost. But, through the mysteries of mind and matter, I was born with a poet's sensibility, and Prozac made it impossible for me to do what comes naturally -- think metaphorically, allusively, exploring the hidden connections between seemingly unrelated things. An iron cage fell over my imagination. Effervescent thoughts decanted to still wine."
'Nuff said. Maybe I should have been under the influence of Prozac when I read it. I'm not sure whether I'll pick up The Zookeeper's Wife, another recommended book, another Ackerman book. If I do, it won't be anytime soon.