History based known novels of American writer Edgar Laurence Doctorow. His works of fiction include Homer & Langley, The March, Billy Bathgate, Ragtime, The Book of Daniel, City of God, Welcome to Hard Times, Loon Lake, World鈥檚 Fair, The Waterworks, and All the Time in the World. Among his honors are the National Book Award, three National Book Critics Circle Awards, two PEN Faulkner Awards, The Edith Wharton Citation for Fiction, and the presidentially conferred National Humanities Medal. In 2009 he was short listed for the Man Booker International Prize honoring a writer鈥檚 lifetime achievement in fiction, and in 2012 he won the PEN Saul Bellow Award given to an author whose 鈥渟cale of achievement over a sustained career places him in the highest rank of American Literature.鈥� In 2013 the American Academy of Arts and Letters awarded him the Gold Medal for Fiction.
Pi霉 che la coscienza 鈥� che Andrew non possiede e mi sembra la insegua nel corso di tutto il romanzo 鈥� 猫 il suo cervello al centro della narrazione di Doctorow, come chiaramente indicato dal titolo originale che 猫 鈥淎ndrew鈥檚 Brain鈥� e non 鈥淎ndrew鈥檚 Consciousness鈥� (o Conscience). Andrew cerca, o insegue, la sua coscienza nel corso di tutto il romanzo e nel corso di una lunga conversazione 鈥� che a pagina 1 猫 gi脿 cominciata, e che non si conclude neppure alla fine 鈥� con una persona che lui chiama Doc, e quindi potrebbe essere il classico shrink, lo psicanalista, o addirittura psichiatra: ma potrebbe anche essere un agente di qualche agenzia di intelligence, che in US certo non mancano (FBI, CIA, NSA, ecc.). Probabilmente 猫 le due cose insieme: uno psichiatra di una qualche agenzia federale per la sicurezza nazionale. Perch茅 猫 qualcuno che sembra interrogare e saperla lunga.
Come posso pensare al mio cervello se 猫 il mio cervello che pensa? Questo cervello finge ossia di essere me che lo penso? Oggigiorno non ci si pu貌 fidare di nessuno, figuriamoci di se stessi.
Andrew parla di s茅 spesso alternando la terza persona alla prima. Nel primo caso non lo definirei un singolare maiestatis in stile papi banana o monarca reggente: dipende dalla sua ricerca mentale, che parte confusa e man mano, aggiungendo ricordi del passato e flashback, si va facendo pi霉 chiara ma mai definita, mai trasparente. Tuttavia, per quanto ricostruisca, per quanto componga tessere del puzzle che 猫 la sua vita (come quella di ciascuno), per quanto insegua il filo (coerente, esistenziale,鈥�), una vera consapevolezza degli accadimenti Andrew la insegue ma non arriva mai a comporla, conquistarla, maneggiarla. Alla fine quella che ad Andrew manca sopra ogni altra cosa 猫 proprio la propria coscienza (ennesimo esempio di titolo tradotto senza senso). E la sua chiacchiera con Doc rimane alquanto sconnessa.
脠 una specie di carcere, la mente del cervello. Abbiamo questi misteriosi cervelli da un chilo e mezzo scarso che ci sbattono in prigione. Sono in isolamento, un鈥檕ra in cortile per gli esercizi della memoria.
Nella vita di Andrew c鈥櫭� un primo matrimonio, con Martha: ma la morte della loro bimba, della quale Andrew non si ritiene completamente innocente, anzi, ha mandato all鈥檃ria quel matrimonio. Pi霉 avanti Andrew s鈥檌nnamora di una sua studentessa, Briony, che potrebbe essere sua figlia, se non addirittura nipote. Anche con lei nasce una bimba che chiamano Willa. Willa e Briony sono conosciute e amate in tutto il West Village. Briony ama l鈥檃ttivit脿 fisica, va a correre, si prepara alla maratona della Grande Mela. E un giorno esce per il suo solito jogging e quel giorno 猫 marted矛 11 settembre 2001鈥�
Andrew non regge il dolore e affida la piccola Willa proprio alla prima moglie, quella Martha che a sua volta ha perso la sua figliolina. Quanto ad Andrew finisce a lavorare per un breve periodo alla Casa Bianca perch茅 il presidente in carica era sua compagno di stanza nel dormitorio di Yale. Presidente un po鈥� nervoso perch茅 ha invaso il paese sbagliato, e nel quale 猫 facile riconoscere Bush jr. cos矛 come nei suoi due consiglieri preferiti sono presi in giro Ashcroft e Rumsfeld
Ma davvero Andrew 猫 chi dice di essere, uno 鈥渟cienziato cognitivo terribilmente depresso鈥�? E come mai 猫 l矛, a parlare con il fantomatico Doc, probabilmente costretto, detenuto, non di sua scelta. Sono vere le cose che ci racconta? Per quanto sia spiritoso, irriverente, caustico, tragicomico, il dolore di Andrew 猫 percepibile, arriva diretto al lettore.
PROPER DISCLAIMER BEFORE REVIEWING: Not only do I work for Random House, but I copyedited this manuscript. I hope that doesn't disqualify me from saying publicly how much I admired and enjoyed the book and how much it got under my skin for weeks after I'd finished with it.
I was fascinated by the complete removal of any security in objectivity for the reader. This book has as unreliable a narrator as can possibly be imagined, and yet I didn't find myself spending so much time trying to suss out the truth as simply reveling in how the reader is pushed and pulled and basically thrust into the narrator's brain. You'll either want to spend time there or not, but I was mesmerized.
And I can't think of any writer who is more precise and succinct in his writing than E. L. Doctorow, who makes every sentence count.
I don't want to go into plot points, because describing almost anything about the plot constitutes SPOILER ALERT, so I'll just finish up by saying that I found this book to be Doctorow at the absolute height of his powers. It's almost alarmingly fresh writing from an author who's enjoyed such a long career.
Cut the music. E.L. Doctorow鈥檚 new novel is no 鈥淩agtime.鈥� The author who once orchestrated grand plots involving Houdini, Freud, J.P. Morgan and a host of other real-life luminaries is now working in a cramped, dark cell. Instead of the breathtaking sweep of Sherman鈥檚 鈥淢arch鈥� through Georgia and the Carolinas, 鈥淎ndrew鈥檚 Brain鈥� leaves us trapped in the airless monologue of one hapless man. Fans of Doctorow鈥檚 award-winning historical novels will find this slim book especially puzzling. But that鈥檚 clearly intentional.
The whole story comes to us as the rambling testimony of a depressed scientist being patiently interviewed, possibly by a government psychiatrist. Andrew flits around the events that led him here 鈥� wherever here is: Early in the book he says, 鈥淚 don鈥檛 know what I鈥檓 doing here,鈥� which makes two of us. He sometimes speaks of himself in the third person; he regularly mocks his unnamed interrogator; and he pays no attention to chronology. It鈥檚 our job to put the tragic incidents of his life in order, to unscramble the taunting clues, to unearth the profundities buried in this misanthropic rumination.
鈥淎ndrew鈥檚 Brain鈥� hurt mine. The problem isn鈥檛 that the novel requires a significant degree of intellectual effort; it鈥檚 that it doesn鈥檛 provide sufficient reward for that effort.
Alternately dejected and self-aggrandizing, Andrew describes a litany of personal failures and bizarre accidents: He drops glasses, breaks a friend鈥檚 jaw, poisons a child, diverts a stranger鈥檚 car into a pole, lets his dog get eaten alive 鈥� the list rolls on and on. 鈥淎ndrew, stop,鈥� his psychiatrist pleads. He鈥檚 a walking disaster, a human bad-luck charm.
A particularly frank acquaintance tells him, 鈥淲ell-meaning, gentle, kindly disposed, charming ineptitude is the modus operandi of the deadliest of killers.鈥� In fact, it鈥檚 fear of what calamity he might cause next that inspires Andrew to drop off a baby with his ex-wife 鈥� a desperate plan to save the child. 鈥淚 had reached the point,鈥� he says, 鈥渨here I felt anything I did would bring harm to anyone I loved.鈥�
To Andrew鈥檚 rising annoyance, the psychiatrist keeps asking, 鈥淒id this really happen?鈥� or 鈥淪o this was not a dream?鈥� But the questionable events are usually this novel鈥檚 finest parts and certainly its most compelling. His ruined first marriage, his dismal teaching career in brain science, his affair with a sweet undergraduate: These episodes demonstrate Doctorow鈥檚 power as a storyteller, but they arrive like oases in the desert of a tedious narrative. Aside from the mixed-up chronology, we have to wade through Andrew鈥檚 banal pronouncements about the brain and the nature of mind. 鈥淐onsciousness without world is impossible,鈥� he claims 鈥� but what about novel without plot?
The problem of what鈥檚 real here and what isn鈥檛 extends beyond the dubious events that Andrew describes. Although there鈥檚 no more intriguing subject than 鈥渉ow the brain becomes the mind,鈥� this cognitive scientist doesn鈥檛 seem convincingly familiar with cognitive science or recent brain research. Instead, Andrew just pops off with little pop-philosophy conundrums. Decades after Daniel Dennett, John Searle and other contemporary scientists and philosophers began writing about consciousness for a lay audience, we deserve something more sophisticated from this novel 鈥� more cortex, less vortex. It鈥檚 fine for Andrew to claim that 鈥渇ree will is an illusion,鈥� but he announces this as if he鈥檚 said something revelatory. 鈥淭here is nothing you can think of except yourself thinking,鈥� he goes on. 鈥淵ou are in the depthless dingledom of your own soul.鈥�
Please, let鈥檚 leave my dingledom out of this.
Tellingly, Andrew sounds much more conversant with American literature, particularly Mark Twain鈥檚 work, which is closer to Doctorow鈥檚 skill set as a longtime English professor. Indeed, thematically, this novel echoes the cynical solipsism of Twain鈥檚 last attempt at a novel, 鈥淭he Mysterious Stranger.鈥� Andrew also speaks movingly about Twain鈥檚 struggle with depression: 鈥淚 see his frail grasp of life at those moments of his prose, his after-dinner guard left down and his upwardly mobile decency become vulnerable to his self-creation. And the woman he loved, gone, and a child he loved, gone, and he looks in the mirror and hates the pretense of his white hair and mustache and suit, all gathered in the rocking-chair wisdom that resides in his bleary eyes. He despairs of the likelihood that the world is his illusion, that he is but a vagrant mind in a futile drift through eternity.鈥�
But beautiful, emotionally genuine passages like that must vie in this novel with some surprisingly trite sections. Isn鈥檛 it awfully late to be using little people 鈥� whom Andrew nervously calls 鈥渄iminutives鈥� 鈥� for comic, surreal effect? Worse is the final quarter of the novel, set in the White House after the Sept. 11 attacks. With its well-worn vision of George W. Bush as an inept frat boy surrounded by maniacal advisers, the story stalls in limp political satire passed off as bitter historical analysis.
In the end, 鈥淎ndrew鈥檚 Brain,鈥� like Andrew himself, is merely a pretender 鈥� claiming more profundity than it can deliver, offering us something elliptical and vague as a simulacrum of intellectual provocation. Novelists such as Richard Powers and Alex Shakar have shown what a boundlessly fascinating subject the relationship between brain and mind can be, but exploring that issue in a meaningful way requires more than a collection of dramatic gestures and philosophical koans. When Andrew describes himself as a 鈥渇ake person,鈥� he has diagnosed the problem with this novel.
I've been reading E.L. Doctorow's novels for more than thirty years, starting with 鈥淭he Book of Daniel,鈥� a fictionalized account of the lives of the sons of executed spies Julius and Ethel Rosenberg. Among my favorites are 鈥淲orld's Fair,鈥� the most clearly autobiographical of Doctorow's novels, about a young boy growing up in New York City in the 1930s; 鈥淏illy Bathgate,鈥� about another New York City youngster taken in by Dutch Schultz's mob; 鈥淭he March,鈥� about the Civil War; and of course, 鈥淩agtime,鈥� which seamlessly blends fictional and historical characters and captures the rhythms of early 20th-century America. Doctorow novels are rich in character and plot seen through a brilliantly deployed historical lens. What then to make of 鈥淎ndrew's Brain鈥�? Surely we wouldn't pummel a writer for stretching his imagination and heading off in a new direction to contemplate the workings of the mind, its relationship to the brain, and the meaning of thought and memory. But Doctorow's fans may be disoriented for the better part of this book's 200 pages.
Andrew is a professor of cognitive science and so has a professional as well as a personal interest in the working of the mind, especially his own. The novel takes the form of a dialogue with a therapist in which Andrew recounts his past as the agent of inadvertent disaster, most notably how he came to lose two wives and two daughters and how he came to hang out in the White House with George W. Bush and his henchmen, Chaingang and Rumbum. Entertaining for sure. And sad, as our surpassingly unreliable narrator becomes more clearly unhinged.
Doctorow has lost nothing as a literary stylist and once you adjust to the lack of a driving plot and start to appreciate the gradual peeling back of layers of thought and memory, there are pleasures to be found here. But I couldn't help but feel that maybe those new to Doctorow would find 鈥淎ndrew's Brain鈥� more compelling than longtime fans. Living in Andrew's brain just wasn't as interesting as being transported to 1900's New Rochelle, a Civil War battlefield or even Homer and Langley's crumbling brownstone.
"Cold hearted orb that rules the night, Removes the colours from our sight. Red is grey and yellow white. But we decide which is right. And which is an illusion? "
In his book The joys of Yiddish, Leo Rosten describes the difference between a schlemiel and a schlimazel. Both types of people suffer from chronic bad luck of one sort or another. The difference is that while the schlemiel is the type of person that trips while carrying a tray of soup in the cafeteria, the schlimazel is the person it lands on. In E.L. Doctorow's compelling new novel, Andrew's Brain, the protagonist Andrew is the schlemiel whilst all those closest to him end up being schlimazels.
Although not technically a mystery this book is one which can easily be spoiled by too full a description of the narrative. So I will start with some broad brush strokes and leave the rest to be discovered by the reader.
Andrew is talented and smart; he is a cognitive scientist with multiple degrees. His life, if his interior monologue is to be believed, has been dogged by a series of unfortunate events. Those events have left him physically unharmed. The physical harm involved has always struck those closest to him. The story is told mostly through the voice of Andrew's interior monologue and in snippets of conversation with another person, perhaps a psychiatrist or some other person tasked with getting Andrew's story told.
But the lack of physical harm is no indicator that Andrew has not been damaged and it appeared clear to me from the start that Andrew's monologue was really getting to the edges of his role in these events. Doctorow paints around those edges and it appeared to me that the reader is left to cut through those edges and find some way to burrow between the lines and dig deeper into Andrew's brain. Andrew's Brain is one of those books that had me puzzled from the start. After the story ended I was still puzzled in many respects but it was a puzzlement that left me thinking about the story and its meaning well after I finished reading it.
I had a visceral reaction to the story. Unsettled as I may have been at not having Andrew's deeper thoughts explained to me it left me no alternative but to personalize the events and substitute my brain for Andrew's. What would I have thought, how would I have reacted, how would I attribute fault, if fault there was, for the events that transpired around me. Would I blame myself? Did my thoughts presage or facilitate these events? Lastly, and this is the key question the book posed for me: would I have stayed sane and would my own `interior monologue' represent a memory of actual events or would it represent some parallel universe of my own creation designed solely to protect me from some paralyzing pain induced by these events. Would I be cognitive enough to know the difference?
As noted above, it is hard to discuss this book adequately without laying out critical spoilers. And that for me is an indication of the power of the book. It is a book that is enriched by discussing it afterwards. I do not belong to any book clubs but this seems to me to be a book club's dream, one that would create a rich discussion in which it is likely that every member will have a different vision of what it said and what it meant to them.
I very much enjoyed Andrew's Brain. It is a book I continue to think about and for this reason alone I have no hesitation in recommending it to anyone willing to put their brain in Andrew's place, look at a life filled with sadness, and reflect upon how their own brain would hold up to the stress.
This novel was too bizarre and scattered and I couldn't finish it. The narration jumps all over and I didn't care enough to see if the ending gets better. If you're a fan of experimental fiction, you might appreciate this more than me.
3.5 stars: What a fun novel to read! It鈥檚 short; it鈥檚 saucy; it鈥檚 provocative; it鈥檚 contemplative; it鈥檚 entertaining. Andrew is a cognitive scientist, who is telling his sad and interesting life story to 鈥淒oc鈥�. The reader is not provided with the setting of the narration, nor with the information of who 鈥淒oc鈥� is. At times, Andrew refers to his self in third person and does appear to be an unreliable narrator. What is engaging is Andrew鈥檚 perspective of the mind: how the brain becomes the mind. Andrew provides interesting ruminations on consciousness, memory, and perception. As I read, I thought, 鈥渨here is this story going?鈥� Doctorow keeps the reader captivated to the end. An interesting and thought-provoking read.
I have tried to think of a word - a single word that is suggested by reading this book. Fascinating is too remote, to inexact. Surprising has no real connotation. Unsettling is good because it reflects the fact that the narration is of a type I am not used to reading and it takes time to be brought in to Andrew's brain, Not the book title, but the neurological narrator. Insightful? Yes, but while the brain takes us on a path that is convoluted, like the brain itself, and it provides social and political commentary, it is also muddled and at times confusing. It is not always pleasant, it is often unpredictable, the antagonists are neither likable or horrible. The events are both world shaking and mundane. Maybe the word I want is provoking.
Doctorow has found a new voice - the brain - but of course the brain, while it controls speech, controls or manipulates thought cannot express itself without the resource of the person and in this case the presence of the psychiatrist who is us because it is the interjection in a stream of consciousness.
Life and death, perspectives on others and insights to the self, presidents and 9/11 athletics and intellectualism are all here in the players and in the perspective of who we are. Andrew is not just the owner of the brain, he is in fact a brain scientist and the psychiatrist is trained to probe and challenge the brain.
We see the brain in this as outside the individual. The brain can generate thought, expand beyond the immediate reality. It can conjecture, it can analysis and it can create decision or indecision. It is conscious and unconscious and which is us? It is a computer and it is an emotional sponge. It misfires and it makes insightful conclusions. It is a mind and a soul if we let it be. It is the function that truly stops life, more than the heart and lungs and tissues. So this ride through a life is incomplete because it is streaming images and ideas and events in a way that only a brain could perceive them or at least the way that the author sees a brain sorting out the world.
And therefore it is not always sequential and images flash by that we want to hold on and examine, but they move past quickly because the destination is somewhere else. The psychiatrist occasionally inserts a statement that the reader might want to make - why did it take so long to say that? But of course that is because the brain of the psychiatrist is like the reader - outside the brain that is spilling a sequence that can only come from one source - the self in the center of the tale. Or perhaps it is a collective mind with patches of previous existence - all existence.
The reader will find a mind in despair, we are not privileged to know where the story will take us, how it will end, even if it will end and as a reviewer I cannot tell you the ending - I can only share the journey.
鈥淚 asked this question: How can I think about my brain when it鈥檚 my brain doing the thinking? So is this brain pretending to be me thinking about it?鈥�
Wow, what a read! Andrew鈥檚 Brain by E.L. Doctorow is an exercise in mental manipulation. Our protagonist Andrew is a professor of cognitive science. He studies the mind, not the brain鈥ndrew gives the definition to unreliable narrator and as a result this story is not an easy read.
First, this is the first E.L. Doctorow book that I have read鈥hame on me!!! What a gifted writer. I was blown away by the brilliance of his prose, his style, and his structure. It has been a while since I have read such an eloquent author鈥ow, I am an instant fan.
This story is the life of Andrew, a man with mental obsessions, problems, and maybe illness too. We get told his story in an often disjointed way that adds to the confusion. I loved it! I cannot give anything away but I will say that this is a book that I will tell my friends and family to read. It is a great piece of fiction.
Some quotes that show his brilliant writings:
鈥溾€ecause of course it never does, does it, my bosky babe, for if life is one definable thing of infinite form then we have to say it feeds on itself. It is self-consuming. And that is not very reassuring if you mean to depend on the world for your consciousness. Is it? If consciousness exists without the world, it is nothing, and if it needs the world to exist, it is still nothing.鈥�
鈥淲e have to be wary of our brains. They make our decisions before we make them. They lead us to still waters. They renounceth free will. And it gets weirder: If you slice a brain down the middle, the left hemisphere and the right hemisphere will operate self-sufficiently and not know what the other is doing. But don鈥檛 think about these things, because it won鈥檛 be you anyway doing the thinking. Just follow your star. Live in the presumptions of the socially constructed life. Abhor science. Sort of believe in God. Put your failings behind you. Present your self-justifications to the bathroom mirror.鈥�
This was a fabulous first read for me by Doctorow, I cannot wait for more鈥�
Andrew es un profesor de ciencias cognitivas, un tanto neur贸tico y egoc茅ntrico, que mantiene un di谩logo con un psiquiatra, al que le va contando los hechos m谩s significativos de su vida. Ya desde el principio sabemos que Andrew ha pasado por situaciones tristes, perdiendo a una hija y una esposa. De hecho comienza contando c贸mo lleva a su primera mujer la hija, que todav铆a es un beb茅, de su segunda esposa fallecida, 驴en qu茅 circunstancias?, es algo que sabremos m谩s adelante. A partir de aqu铆 Andrew va dando datos de c贸mo conoci贸 a esta segunda esposa, as铆 como la manera de ver el mundo por su parte. A esto hay que a帽adir que Andrew es un personaje no fiable, es posible que est茅 mintiendo en algunos asuntos.
E.L.Doctorow nos acerca una historia agridulce, sobre la muerte y la p茅rdida, narrada de manera poco com煤n, pero entendible. Los dos primeros tercios son notables, con un tono c贸mico e ingenioso, pero el giro posterior no llega a convencerme. Una obra interesante, por un autor magn铆fico.
Let me just say at the beginning here that I loved this book, but I didn't realize how much I liked it until it was over. Add this one to your list of most-unreliable-narrator novels, or just to your list of books you should definitely read. It is a novel filled with surprises, the entire book a conversation between Andrew, a cognitive scientist whose life up to this point has been one of inadvertent disaster, and a psychotherapist/psychologist/shrink to whom he tells his "not pretty" story. Or maybe not, depending on how you choose to read it. So -- this post won't be a standard book discussion, but more my reaction to the novel, since it is really one of those books where the reader makes up his/her own mind about what's actually going on. Or not. Plus, it would sort of be unfair to spill its contents -- doing so might throw prospective readers into major spoiler alert territory. I'll say this: Andrew's Brain is something very different than anything I've seen before. Forget the usual linear narrative format, and forget any kind of basic quasi-understanding normally provided by the author that all will be explained. The book focuses on how we view brain and mind, memories, free will and fate, truth and deception, and overall how we see ourselves. At the same time, Andrew muses about the mind as a "kind of jail" for the brain, which according to him, can often pretend to be one's soul, posing the question of one's ability to actually know and understand one's self.
Reading this novel took me on an interesting ride. The narrative started feeling way too random and repetitive at times, and while my normal thing to do when I read a novel with an unreliable narrator is to try and figure out what's really going on, this time I started getting frustrated and felt like giving up. But then I thought, this is E.L. Doctorow, an author I've been reading for years, so there's got to be something here I'm missing. So midway through, I started completely over, relaxed, and changed my own way of thinking about the whole thing. Suddenly the randomness and the flashes of repetition made sense, as I came to realize that this book is offering an opportunity to look through a window at how this person's traumatized brain works, making for a much better reading experience and allowing me to become more comfortable with what was going on here.
Andrew's Brain is definitely a novel where a) the reader is left to judge for himself/herself just what might be going on during these conversations, and b) you have to think outside of the box, freeing yourself from whatever expectations you might have as soon as you open the book. With apologies for being so vague here, I don't want my take on it to ruin anyone else's appreciation. This novel is getting very mixed reviews, but I found it intriguing and I had a lot of fun trying to figure things out after I'd finished it, coming up with several different interpretations of what I'd just read, all of which made perfectly good sense to me. It's often funny and is populated by some very interesting characters here and there; at the same time, it can be downright heartbreaking.
You can find professional reviews that will tell you more, but I'd strongly suggest not reading them. My thanks to the people at Random House -- I've given my ARC to another reader and bought a real copy of this novel to revisit later. The challenge of going through it again is just irresistible.
Andrew 猫 un professore di neuroscienze un po鈥� goffo e per indole tendente al depresso che racconta la sua vita come fosse in una seduta terapeutica, sollecitato dalle domande di un ipotetico psichiatra, o psicologo, o confessore, o semplicemente una voce alter ego dello stesso Andrew.鈥� Sull鈥檌dentit脿 di questo interlocutore Doctorow 猫 estremamente vago, e in fondo chiarirlo non 猫 funzionale alla storia, non aggiungerebbe alcunch茅 perch茅 sono le parole di Andrew che seguiamo nel suo flusso di pensieri di concatenazione di ricordi estremamente lucidi, di atti mancati dei quali si sente incolpevolmente responsabile, lutti, perdite incolmabili che lo hanno lasciato sordo e impermeabile, inaridendogli l鈥檃nima, da quegli eventi in poi riuscir脿 a vivere solo nel ricordo del passato.鈥� Quale professore di neuroscienze Andrew si dedica all鈥檈splorazione del cervello: gomitolo di lana da un chilo e mezzo scarso, intricato reticolo di infinite interconnessioni che animato da scariche elettriche ci innalza alla dignit脿 di esseri umani.鈥� Quando il cervello, organo non senziente, diventa mente? Quando quell鈥檃gglomerato gelatinoso, diviso in due emisferi che non colloquiano tra loro assurge a coscienza? Forse nel momento in cui comincia a relazionarsi al mondo? La coscienza esiste senza il mondo o ha bisogno del mondo per trovare la sua sussistenza? Come posso pensare al mio cervello, quale elemento esterno a me, se 猫 il mio stesso cervello che opera l鈥檃ttivit脿 del pensare?鈥� Queste sono le domande che Doctorow suggerisce, a questo punto potrebbe sembrare che il taglio dato al suo romanzo sia di natura specificatamente neuro scientifica o pseudo neuroscientifica, niente di meno corrispondente al vero, perch茅 il romanzo di Doctorow 猫 una storia di vita che ha misurate pretese in senso metafisico, se non limitarsi a suggerire qualche domanda. Doctorow vuole confezionare un romanzo e non cade nell鈥檈rrore di infarcirlo di notazioni troppo filosofiche o troppo cerebrali (ci貌 nonostante il titolo, che poi in inglese 猫 Andrew鈥檚 brain, e che mi aveva notevolmente fuorviato).鈥� La sua prosa scorre per貌 cos矛 limpida e fluida, procede veloce, senza intoppi e gli occhi che leggono seguono riga dopo riga, da sinistra a destra, da su a gi霉 e mentre si legge si perde la cognizione di tempo e spazio diventando un tutt鈥檜no con lo scritto, e in questo ho ravvisato il suo pregio maggiore.鈥‥cco, quando si verifica la simultaneit脿 di queste coincidenze di immersione quasi da apnea nella lettura io sento che mi trovo innanzi ad una opera ben fatta, ben concepita, oliata al punto giusto, anche se non ha il merito, n茅 l鈥檕nere, di fare vibrare a fondo ogni fibra del mio essere, non ruba la mia anima , non mi lascia affaticata e prostrata non incidendo in me un segno indelebile, ma alla letteratura non possiamo richiedere ogni volta uno sforzo ed un risultato cos矛 alto.
I received Andrew's Brain as a First Reads Giveaway. If you're interested in reading the ramblings of a self-adsorbed man who lacks maturity, then this book is for you. If you鈥檙e looking for a book with plot or direction, then you鈥檙e not going to find it here. I assume that part of the allure of this book is supposed to be the fact that Andrew鈥檚 thought patterns are quirky and unique, but I believe it could have been achieved more effectively. I didn鈥檛 care about Andrew (or any of the characters) even as I finished the last few pages; I mostly just wanted him to stop talking. The last third of the book becomes completely topsy-turvy and ridiculous. If this book has been any more than 200 pages, I probably wouldn鈥檛 have wasted my time. I鈥檓 rating this book with two stars as I did find it amusing is a couple of spots, however I felt I鈥檇 have rather spent my time on another book so that鈥檚 all the stars this one鈥檚 getting from me.
This is my first book by E.L. Doctorow that鈥檚 I鈥檝e read. Based on other鈥檚 comments, I intend to give his other works a shot. However, Andrew鈥檚 Brain was a total blunder in my opinion.
鈥淪iamo tutti impostori, dottore, anche tu. Specialmente tu. Perch茅 sorridi? Fingere 猫 il pane quotidiano del cervello. 脠 quello che fa. Riesce perfino a fingere di non essere se stesso. Ah s矛? E che cosa sa fingere di essere, tanto per fare un esempio? Be', per lunghissimo tempo, e fino all鈥檃ltro ieri, l鈥檃nima.鈥�
La voce narrante di Doctorow 猫 inaffidabile, crea sconnessione e disarticolazione. Il protagonista insegue una visione coerente del mondo, cerca ostinatamente una coscienza delle cose e disperato aspira alla consapevolezza, ma rigoroso e tragico fallisce ogni tentativo, come in una scienza del disastro. Il viaggio nella mente di Andrew, scienziato cognitivo, 猫 pieno di sarcasmo e disgrazia, il suo amore per la studentessa e seconda moglie Briony 猫 doloroso e muto, la sua esistenza si trasforma in una messinscena delirante e incontrollabile, tra le vicende drammatiche e assurde della storia e un'individualit脿 svuotata di ogni razionalit脿 e ordine; Andrew 猫 una specie di pericolo pubblico, di indesiderato e sfortunato e clownesco pseudo-soggetto, perseguitato da una maledizione, da una malasorte inedita, che lo porta alla follia. Un automobilista ha un incidente a causa sua; il suo cane viene assalito nel parco, la sua prima figlia 猫 vittima di una sciagura. Cos矛 i suoi errori e la sua sofferenza rispecchiano quella di un paese intero, del quale si indaga l'inconscio con delicatezza e con sapienza, e una buona dose di humour. Due cose proprio non mi sono piaciute: l'invenzione infelice di due personaggi, i genitori di Briony, che sono individui diversi intelligenti e gioiosi e la satira politica sui falchi della compagnia Bush, decisamente trattati con stile di basso livello, per quanto inquietanti e credibili. Un testo angosciante e irriverente, con buone suggestioni ma esiti non sempre ispirati. La vita 猫 una malattia impenetrabile, in certi casi, secondo l'autore, e la letteratura un mestiere misterioso, un esperimento maniacale che ne allevia o asseconda i sintomi. Tra sensi di colpa e paradossi cognitivi, una storia metaforica e fredda, che discorre del presente con allucinata forza predittiva.
Yes, this is not the E.L. Doctorow you know. Don't bug out, though, okay? I mean, the dude is 83 and has won or been nominated for every major fiction award since his career began in 1960. Let's cut him some slack, yeah?
Really, you should. Because Andrew's Brain is 鈥� oh, I'm trying not to overreact here, believe me, but... 鈥� in fifty years, this may be one of those kinda-sorta career-defining novels.
I know, I know. Ragtime! Billy Bathgate! The March! Dude's got chops. Dude's got a shelf full of BOSS. But the great thing about what Doctorow's done before is that he can take chances now. Andrew's Brain is most definitely a chance. I'm glad he took it.
This Andrew, this guy with the brain, he's such a bitch, honestly. Guy blames himself for every damn thing that's gone wrong in his life, in the lives of those around him, hell, in the world at large, it seems. I'm probably exaggerating 鈥� am exaggerating, but only slightly 鈥� but this guy is depression personified. Not the kind of depression that leads to suicide; the kind of depression that leads to being a cynical asshole who has serious issues with the way humanity has evolved into a big, steaming pile of what-the-fuck.
Andrew has excuses, though. He's had a life full of bad experiences. He suffered through the death of his first child (totally his fault), the demise of his marriage (kind of his fault), and the death of a lover half his age who also birthed his second child, who he then leaves with his ex because he fears he can't be an adequate father. After all this, he finds himself teaching high school and then working in the White House before winding up detained somewhere undergoing psychological treatment.
Follow?
OK, cool, because now you should know that Andrew is completely unreliable. UNRE-FUCKING-LIABLE. Up front, you learn he calls himself Andrew the Pretender. And he says things like "Pretending is the brain's work" and "I can't trust anyone these days, least of all myself." And then you can't help but wonder if what Andrew says, what he sees, or what he's experienced is even real at all.
But you'll be OK with that. I was, because, really, I deal with that every day. And so do you. We're all unreliable narrators, and so is everyone around us.
Either way, Andrew's Brain, on top of being another of those head-scratching mindfucks 鈥� why do I keep signing up for these? 鈥� is funny, playful, thought-provoking, disturbing, sly, and just plain different. The fact that this came from Doctorow's brain still blows mine. It's a worthy entry into his catalogue, even if you're left at your leisure to put the pieces together.
Andrew, uno scienziato cognitivo (ma potrebbe essere un computer intelligente, dotato di 鈥渃oscienza鈥�) si apre a Doc, uno psicologo (o qualcuno o qualcosa che tale parrebbe), raccontandogli la sua storia, avvincente e parecchio sfortunata: l'ultimo romanzo (2014) di E.L. Doctorow (1931-2015) 猫 strano, stimolante e... bello.
That was a surprisingly good book. I went into it not knowing what to expect. It was my first Doctorow novel. The wiring is impeccable, the flow of narration spotless, the idea original and it's execution skillful. 3 stars only bcd of it being a bit narrow in scope. Short novella which although I enjoyed immensely felt like something that would be better suited for a bigger novel. I feel like I skimmed through it barely touching the surface of something potentially great. Sill would recommend it though and looking forward to read another Doctorow's book.