Paul Collins, Not Even Wrong : Adventures in Autism

Not Even Wrong : Adventures in Autism

Those who know me will understand the depth of the following compliment: This book made me care deeply about a child and about parenting. As a person whose imagined future plans have almost never included children, my threshold for empathy with a memoir of parental experiences is pretty high--to me, you had a choice and you made it, knowing full well that your kid, like all kids, would one day be a bratty teenager. Maybe that's why this book works--because Paul Collins and his wife didn't have a choice about their son, Morgan, being born autistic.

The way that Collins blends a momentous year in the life of his family with a variety of stories about the history of autism and notable autists (including many whose conditions have been diagnosed posthumously, because autism wasn't understood at all until recently) works, too. We feel his pain and his growth, and laugh and cry with him, even as he gently gives us a textbook education in the development of society's understanding of the condition, from Peter the Wild Boy to Rainman and beyond.

Quietly, deftly, Collins also seeks to reshape the way we think about autism. For instance, he says, "Autists are described by others--and by themselves--as aliens among humans. But there's an irony to this, for precisely the opposite is true. They are us, and to understand them is to begin to understand what it means to be human. Think of it: a disability is usually defined in terms of what is missing. A child tugs at his or her parents and whispers, 'Where's that man's arm?' But autism is an ability and a disability: it is as much about what is abundant as what is missing, an overexpression of the very traits that make our species unique. Other animals are social, but only humans are capable of abstract logic. The autistic outhuman the humans, and we can scarcely recognize the result."

And then, of course, we have the moment when Collins sees an adult version of his son at a fast food restaurant and watches the reaction of people around him, then walks a few blocks, stops, sits down on the stoop of a church, and cries. "I can't bear the thought that someday, somehow, someone will be cruel to my child. Or pretend that he is not even there." His pain is palpable; you can't help but care about him and empathize with his struggle.

Destined to be a comfort to parents of autistic children, this most recent Paul Collins book is a worthwhile and exceptionally enjoyable read with or without such a personal stake. Even more than Sixpence House, this book perfects the genre of personal history and intense research into the arcane that Collins is creating for himself. Give him 200 pages of your time.

Andrew Sean Greer, The Confessions of Max Tivoli

The Confessions of Max Tivoli

In attempting to find words to describe Andrew Sean Greer's new novel, I discover none, so I refer you to the words of the New York Times and of John Updike in the New Yorker. For its portrayal of pre-earthquake San Francisco, its deft weaving of history with the tale of a man aging backwards, and its unique meditation on the endurance and importance of loving someone no matter the circumstances, I have little doubt that this book will make many year-end best-of lists and not a few prize shortlists as well. This is a remarkable reminder of the power of fiction.

Gregory Maguire, Wicked

Wicked: The Life and Times of the Wicked Witch of the West

The title of this wonderful book should probably include a question mark--Wicked? Because that’s the question we’re meant to ask ourselves as we read this chronicle of the life of the Wicked Witch of the West. Was she really wicked? Or did we just catch her at her worst, last moment in The Wizard of Oz?

Beyond being compulsively readable, filled with moments of recognition as the Witch moves steadily toward an end we’ve already seen on film, this book tackles serious issues on many levels. The Witch’s father is a preacher, fighting to protect “unionism” from the new “pleasure faith” while also balancing it with the pagan tendencies and folklore of Oz culture. The presence of talking animals in Oz—remember the Cowardly Lion?—gives Maguire the makings of a civil rights struggle dedicated to fair treatment of these high-functioning beasts, as well as raising questions about the proper dividing line between man and animals and whether either has a soul. Maguire’s Oz is filled with political intrigue and romantic tensions, re-imagining the Yellow Brick Road as a tool in the Wizard’s assault on the freedoms of Munchkinland and the Good Witch of the North as a spoiled noblewoman, wooed by many, who started out as the Wicked Witch’s college roommate. The magical shoes, the flying monkeys, and even the Witch’s green skin all have fascinating explanations.

It is a measure of the book’s success that I want to watch the movie again with all this back story in mind. Maguire has used one classic to create another, and in doing so, he has amplified both.