On the Move: A Life

by Oliver Sacks

It was at this time that I set up my own lab in the house, and closed the doors, closed my ears, against Michael’s madness. It was not that I was indifferent to Michael; I felt a passionate sympathy for him, I half-knew what he was going through, but I had to keep a distance also, create my own world of science so that I would not be swept into the chaos, the madness, the seduction, of his.

I wondered whether systems in the brain concerned with the perception (or projection) of meaning, significance, and intentionality, systems underlying a sense of wonder and mysteriousness, systems for appreciation of the beauty of art and science, had lost their balance in schizophrenia, producing a mental world overcharged with intense emotion and distortions of reality. These systems had lost their middle ground, it seemed, so that any attempt to titrate them, damp them down, could

Michael’s lack of social skills and of ordinary day-to-day aptitudes (he could scarcely make a cup of tea for himself) demanded a social and “existential” approach. Tranquilizers have little or no effect on the “negative” symptoms of schizophrenia—withdrawal, flattening of affect, etc.—which, in their insidious, chronic way, can be more debilitating, more undermining of life, than any positive symptoms. It is a question of not just medication but the whole business of living a meaningful and enjoyable life—with support systems, community, self-respect, and being respected by others—which has to be addressed. Michael’s problems were not purely “medical.”

I am a storyteller, for better and for worse. I suspect that a feeling for stories, for narrative, is a universal human disposition, going with our powers of language, consciousness of self, and autobiographical memory. The act of writing, when it goes well, gives me a pleasure, a joy, unlike any other. It takes me to another place—irrespective of my subject—where I am totally absorbed and oblivious to distracting thoughts, worries, preoccupations, or indeed the passage of time. In those rare, heavenly states of mind, I may write nonstop until I can no longer see the paper. Only then do I realize that evening has come and that I have been writing all day. Over a lifetime, I have written millions of words, but the act of writing seems as fresh, and as much fun, as when I started it nearly seventy years ago.