Saturday, May 30, 2009

Musicophilia by Oliver Sacks


In the third month after being struck by lightning, then, Cicoria - once an easygoing, genial family man, almost indifferent to music - was inspired, even possessed, by music, and scarcely had time for anything else. It began to dawn on him that perhaps he had been "saved" for a special reason. "I came to think," he said, "that the only reason I had been allowed to survive was the music."

-Musicophilia

Musicophilia
, by neurologist Oliver Sacks (Awakenings, The Man Who Mistook His Wife for a Hat), is a study of how the brain is affected by music, especially in cases of brain injury or affliction. I'd been looking forward to reading it for some time, so I was a bit disappointed to find that the excerpts I'd already read turned out to be the most enjoyable parts of the book.

It is a hugely informative book, no doubt, but after a while I felt as though it dragged on and on. If multiple examples of synesthesia start to seem a bit dull, you can imagine that repetitive case studies of cochlear amusia are not exactly thrilling. The repetitiveness was really brought home when I read the following two short passages:

Page 260: "[Silas] Weir Mitchell, a novelist as well as a neurologist, was fascinated by the descriptions he receieved from [Civil War] soldiers, and he was the first to take the phenomenon of phantom limbs seriously. (Prior to this, they had been regarded as purely 'in the mind,' apparitions conjured up by loss and grief, like the apparitions of recently deceased children or parents.)"

Page 261: "Before Weir Mitchell's account, phantom limbs were regarded as purely psychic hallucinations conjured up by bereavement, mourning, or yearning - comparable to the apparitions of loved ones that mourners may experience for some weeks after their loss."

Yes, I recall....from reading almost the exact same thing one page earlier. A bit sloppy, no?

Part of my issue is certainly that I am not someone who is terribly interested in the finer biological points with regard to brain function. However, I'm very interested in the idiosyncracies of our brains and I'm interested in music, although I don't know much about the technical details of that subject either. When Sacks mentioned in passing that his mother could only remember a few songs, I found that fascinating, because I've always taken my brain's ability to function as a jukebox for granted. It's pretty remarkable, though, when you think about it.

My favorite essays were "A Bolt from the Blue," which I quoted above, and "In The Moment" (which you can read here, where it was titled "The Abyss"). To me, the idea of suddenly developing musicophilia, or losing almost your entire memory, except for music, is inherently more interesting than perfect pitch, for example. I also would have liked to read more about catchy tunes/"brainworms." During the course of my reading, I heard the song "Vienna" by Ultravox on the show Ashes to Ashes; I'd heard it once before on the same show about a week earlier. A few hours after hearing it, it popped into my head and the one line I knew played and replayed endlessly. It can be a bit distracting to have a New Romantic wailing "This means nothing to me/Vienna" over and over again, I'll tell you. I can't even really articulate how the melody of that line works for me - almost like it's scratching an itch in my brain - both pleasant and almost overstimulating. I wish Sacks could have explained something like that. And why do we like the songs we do? That's the kind of thing I would love to know.

All that having been said, I've always wanted to read The Man Who Mistook His Wife for a Hat, and this didn't necessarily put me off. I think I might find a set of essays with more varied subject matter a better fit for me.

Up next: Plans have changed slightly, due to some new books falling my lap (thanks Robin!). I've started Pride and Prejudice and Zombies; I also bought a collection of short humor pieces by Simon Rich at the Virgin Megastore closeout sale and I'm having trouble putting it down.

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