Proust Was a Neuroscientist

Proust Was a Neuroscientist

by Jonah Lehrer

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Overview

In this technology-driven age, it’s tempting to believe that science can solve every mystery. After all, science has cured countless diseases and even sent humans into space. But as Jonah Lehrer argues in this sparkling debut, science is not the only path to knowledge. In fact, when it comes to understanding the brain, art got there first.
Taking a group of artists — a painter, a poet, a chef, a composer, and a handful of novelists — Lehrer shows how each one discovered an essential truth about the mind that science is only now rediscovering. We learn, for example, how Proust first revealed the fallibility of memory; how George Eliot discovered the brain’s malleability; how the French chef Escoffier discovered umami (the fifth taste); how Cézanne worked out the subtleties of vision; and how Gertrude Stein exposed the deep structure of language — a full half-century before the work of Noam Chomsky and other linguists. It’s the ultimate tale of art trumping science.
More broadly, Lehrer shows that there’s a cost to reducing everything to atoms and acronyms and genes. Measurement is not the same as understanding, and art knows this better than science does. An ingenious blend of biography, criticism, and first-rate science writing, Proust Was a Neuroscientist urges science and art to listen more closely to each other, for willing minds can combine the best of both, to brilliant effect.

Product Details

ISBN-13: 9780547085906
Publisher: Houghton Mifflin Harcourt
Publication date: 09/01/2008
Edition description: Reprint
Pages: 256
Sales rank: 293,461
Product dimensions: 5.50(w) x 8.20(h) x 0.80(d)

About the Author

Jonah Lehrer is a Contributing Editor at Wired and a frequent contributor to The New Yorker. He writes the Head Case column for The Wall Street Journal and regularly appears on WNYC’s Radiolab. His writing has also appeared in Nature, The New York Times Magazine, Scientific American and Outside. He’s the author of two previous books, Proust Was A Neuroscientist and How We Decide. He graduated from Columbia University and attended Oxford as a Rhodes Scholar.

Read an Excerpt

CHAPTER 1

Walt Whitman

The Substance of Feeling

The poet writes the history of his own body. — Henry David Thoreau

FOR WALT WHITMAN, the Civil War was about the body. The crime of the Confederacy, Whitman believed, was treating blacks as nothing but flesh, selling them and buying them like pieces of meat. Whitman's revelation, which he had for the first time at a New Orleans slave auction, was that body and mind are inseparable. To whip a man's body was to whip a man's soul.

This is Whitman's central poetic idea. We do not have a body, we are a body. Although our feelings feel immaterial, they actually begin in the flesh. Whitman introduces his only book of poems, Leaves of Grass, by imbuing his skin with his spirit, "the aroma of my armpits finer than prayer":

Was somebody asking to see the soul?
Whitman's fusion of body and soul was a revolutionary idea, as radical in concept as his free-verse form. At the time, scientists believed that our feelings came from the brain and that the body was just a lump of inert matter. But Whitman believed that our mind depended upon the flesh. He was determined to write poems about our "form complete."

This is what makes his poetry so urgent: the attempt to wring "beauty out of sweat," the metaphysical soul out of fat and skin. Instead of dividing the world into dualisms, as philosophers had done for centuries, Whitman saw everything as continuous with everything else. For him, the body and the soul, the profane and the profound, were only different names for the same thing. As Ralph Waldo Emerson, the Boston Transcendentalist, once declared, "Whitman is a remarkable mixture of the Bhagvat Ghita and the New York Herald"

Whitman got this theory of bodily feelings from his investigations of himself. All Whitman wanted to do in Leaves of Grass was put "a person, a human being (myself, in the later half of the Nineteenth Century, in America) freely, fully and truly on record." And so the poet turned himself into an empiricist, a lyricist of his own experience. As Whitman wrote in the preface to Leaves of Grass, "You shall stand by my side to look in the mirror with me."

It was this method that led Whitman to see the soul and body as inextricably "interwetted." He was the first poet to write poems in which the flesh was not a stranger. Instead, in Whitman's unmetered form, the landscape of his body became the inspiration for his poetry. Every line he ever wrote ached with the urges of his anatomy, with its wise desires and inarticulate sympathies. Ashamed of nothing, Whitman left nothing out. "Your very flesh," he promised his readers, "shall be a great poem."

Neuroscience now knows that Whitman's poetry spoke the truth: emotions are generated by the body. Ephemeral as they seem, our feelings are actually rooted in the movements of our muscles and the palpitations of our insides. Furthermore, these material feelings are an essential element of the thinking process. As the neuro-scientist Antonio Damasio notes, "The mind is embodied ... not just embrained."

At the time, however, Whitman's idea was seen as both erotic and audacious. His poetry was denounced as a "pornographic utterance," and concerned citizens called for its censorship. Whitman enjoyed the controversy. Nothing pleased him more than dismantling prissy Victorian mores and inverting the known facts of science.

The story of the brain's separation from the body begins with René Descartes. The most influential philosopher of the seventeenth century, Descartes divided being into two distinct substances: a holy soul and a mortal carcass. The soul was the source of reason, science, and everything nice. Our flesh, on the other hand, was "clocklike," just a machine that bleeds. With this schism, Descartes condemned the body to a life of subservience, a power plant for the brain's light bulbs.

In Whitman's own time, the Cartesian impulse to worship the brain and ignore the body gave rise to the new "science" of phrenology. Begun by Franz Josef Gall at the start of the nineteenth century, phrenologists believed that the shape of the skull, its strange hills and hollows, accurately reflected the mind inside. By measuring the bumps of bone, these pseudoscientists hoped to measure the subject's character by determining which areas of the brain were swollen with use and which were shriveled with neglect. Our cranial packaging revealed our insides; the rest of the body was irrelevant.

By the middle of the nineteenth century, the promise of phrenology seemed about to be fulfilled. Innumerable medical treatises, dense with technical illustrations, were written to defend its theories. Endless numbers of skulls were quantified. Twenty-seven different mental talents were uncovered. The first scientific theory of mind seemed destined to be the last.

But measurement is always imperfect, and explanations are easy to invent. Phrenology's evidence, though amassed in a spirit of seriousness and sincerity, was actually a collection of accidental observations. (The brain is so complicated an organ that its fissures can justify almost any imaginative hypothesis, at least until a better hypothesis comes along.) For example, Gall located the trait of ideality in "the temporal ridge of the frontal bones" because busts of Homer revealed a swelling there and because poets when writing tend to touch that part of the head. This was his data.

Of course, phrenology strikes our modern sensibilities as woefully unscientific, like an astrology of the brain. It is hard to imagine its allure or comprehend how it endured for most of the nineteenth century. Whitman used to quote Oliver Wendell Holmes on the subject: "You might as easily tell how much money is in a safe feeling the knob on the door as tell how much brain a man has by feeling the bumps on his head." But knowledge emerges from the litter of our mistakes, and just as alchemy led to chemistry, so did the failure of phrenology lead science to study the brain itself and not just its calcified casing.

Whitman, a devoted student of the science of his day, had a complicated relationship with phrenology. He called the first phrenology lecture he attended "the greatest conglomeration of pretension and absurdity it has ever been our lot to listen to. ... We do not mean to assert that there is no truth whatsoever in phrenology, but we do say that its claims to confidence, as set forth by Mr. Fowler, are preposterous to the last degree." More than a decade later, however, that same Mr. Fowler, of the publishing house Fowler and Wells in Manhattan, became the sole distributor of the first edition of Leaves of Grass. Whitman couldn't find anyone else to publish his poems. And while Whitman seems to have moderated his views on the foolishness of phrenology — even going so far as to undergo a few phrenological exams himself — his poetry stubbornly denied phrenology's most basic premise. Like Descartes, phrenologists looked for the soul solely in the head, desperate to reduce the mind to its cranial causes. Whitman realized that such reductions were based on a stark error. By ignoring the subtleties of his body, these scientists could not possibly account for the subtleties of his soul. Like Leaves of Grass, which could only be understood in "its totality — its massings," Whitman believed that his existence could be "comprehended at no time by its parts, at all times by its unity." This is the moral of Whitman's poetic sprawl: the human being is an irreducible whole. Body and soul are emulsified into each other. "To be in any form, what is that?" Whitman once asked. "Mine is no callous shell."

Emerson

Whitman's faith in the transcendental body was strongly influenced by the transcendentalism of Ralph Waldo Emerson. When Whitman was still a struggling journalist living in Brooklyn, Emerson was beginning to write his lectures on nature. A lapsed Unitarian preacher, Emerson was more interested in the mystery of his own mind than in the preachings of some aloof God. He disliked organized religion because it relegated the spiritual to a place in the sky instead of seeing the spirit among "the common, low and familiar."

Without Emerson's mysticism, it is hard to imagine Whitman's poetry. "I was simmering, simmering, simmering," Whitman once said, "and Emerson brought me to a boil." From Emerson, Whitman learned to trust his own experience, searching himself for intimations of the profound. But if the magnificence of Emerson was his vagueness, his defense of Nature with a capital N, the magnificence of Whitman was his immediacy. All of Whitman's songs began with himself, nature as embodied by his own body.

And while Whitman and Emerson shared a philosophy, they could not have been more different in person. Emerson looked like a Puritan minister, with abrupt cheekbones and a long, bony nose. A man of solitude, he was prone to bouts of selfless self-absorption. "I like the silent church before the service begins," he confessed in "Self-Reliance." He wrote in his journal that he liked man, but not men. When he wanted to think, he would take long walks by himself in the woods.

Whitman —"broad shouldered, rough-fleshed, Bacchus-browed, bearded like a satyr, and rank"— got his religion from Brooklyn, from its dusty streets and its cart drivers, its sea and its sailors, its mothers and its men. He was fascinated by people, these citizens of his sensual democracy. As his uncannily accurate phrenological exam put it, "Leading traits of character appear to be Friendship, Sympathy, Sublimity and Self-Esteem, and markedly among his combinations the dangerous fault of Indolence, a tendency to the pleasure of Voluptuousness and Alimentiveness, and a certain reckless swing of animal will, too unmindful, probably, of the conviction of others."

Whitman heard Emerson for the first time in 1842. Emerson was beginning his lecture tour, trying to promote his newly published Essays. Writing in the New York Aurora, Whitman called Emerson's speech "one of the richest and most beautiful compositions" he had ever heard. Whitman was particularly entranced by Emerson's plea for a new American poet, a versifier fit for democracy: "The poet stands among partial men for the complete man," Emerson said. "He reattaches things to the whole."

But Whitman wasn't ready to become a poet. For the next decade, he continued to simmer, seeing New York as a journalist and as the editor of the Brooklyn Eagle and Freeman. He wrote articles about criminals and abolitionists, opera stars and the new Fulton ferry. When the Freeman folded, he traveled to New Orleans, where he saw slaves being sold on the auction block, "their bodies encased in metal chains." He sailed up the Mississippi on a side-wheeler, and got a sense of the Western vastness, the way the "United States themselves are essentially the greatest poem."

It was during these difficult years when Whitman was an unemployed reporter that he first began writing fragments of poetry, scribbling down quatrains and rhymes in his cheap notebooks. With no audience but himself, Whitman was free to experiment. While every other poet was still counting syllables, Whitman was writing lines that were messy montages of present participles, body parts, and erotic metaphors. He abandoned strict meter, for he wanted his form to reflect nature, to express thoughts "so alive that they have an architecture of their own." As Emerson had insisted years before, "Doubt not, O poet, but persist. Say 'It is in me, and shall out.'"

And so, as his country was slowly breaking apart, Whitman invented a new poetics, a form of inexplicable strangeness. A self-conscious "language-maker," Whitman had no precursor. No other poet in the history of the English language prepared readers for Whitman's eccentric cadences ("sheath'd hooded sharp- tooth'd touch"), his invented verbs ("unloosing," "preluding," "unreeling"), his love of long anatomical lists, and his honest refusal to be anything but himself, syllables be damned. Even his bad poetry is bad in a completely original way, for Whitman only ever imitated himself.

And yet, for all its incomprehensible originality, Whitman's verse also bears the scars of his time. His love of political unions and physical unity, the holding together of antimonies: these themes find their source in America's inexorable slide into the Civil War. "My book and the war are one," Whitman once said. His notebook breaks into free verse for the first time in lines that try to unite the decade's irreconcilables, the antagonisms of North and South, master and slave, body and soul. Only in his poetry could Whitman find the whole he was so desperately looking for:

I am the poet of the body And I am the poet of the soul I go with the slaves of the earth equally with the masters And I will stand between the masters and the slaves,
In 1855, after years of "idle versifying," Whitman finally published his poetry. He collected his "leaves"— printing lingo for pages — of "grass"— what printers called compositions of little value — in a slim, cloth-bound volume, only ninety-five pages long. Whitman sent Emerson the first edition of his book. Emerson responded with a letter that some said Whitman carried around Brooklyn in his pocket for the rest of the summer. At the time, Whitman was an anonymous poet and Emerson a famous philosopher. His letter to Whitman is one of the most generous pieces of praise in the history of American literature. "Dear Sir," Emerson began:

I am not blind to the worth of the wonderful gift of "Leaves of Grass." I find it the most extraordinary piece of wit & wisdom that America has yet contributed. I am very happy in reading it. It meets the demand I am always making of what seemed the sterile & stingy nature, as if too much handiwork or too much lymph in the temperament were making our western wits fat & mean. I give you joy of your free & brave thought. ... I greet you at the beginning of a great career.

Whitman, never one to hide a good review from "the Master," sent Emerson's private letter to the Tribune, where it was published and later included in the second edition of Leaves of Grass. But by 1860, Emerson had probably come to regret his literary endorsement. Whitman had added to Leaves of Grass the erotic sequence "Enfans d'Adam" ("Children of Adam"), a collection that included the poems "From Pent-up Aching Rivers," "I Am He that Aches with Love," and "O Hymen! O Hymenee!" Emerson wanted Whitman to remove the erotic poems from the new edition of his poetry. (Apparently, some parts of Nature still had to be censored.) Emerson made this clear while the two were taking a long walk across Boston Common, expressing his fear that Whitman was "in danger of being tangled up with the unfortunate heresy" of free love.

Whitman, though still an obscure poet, was adamant: "Enfans d'Adam" must remain. Such an excision, he said, would be like castration and "What does a man come to with his virility gone?" For Whitman, sex revealed the unity of our form, how the urges of the flesh became the feelings of the soul. He would remember in the last preface to Leaves of Grass, "A Backwards Glance over Traveled Roads," that his conversation with Emerson had crystallized his poetic themes. Although he admitted that his poetry was "avowedly the song of sex and Amativeness and ever animality," he believed that his art "lifted [these bodily allusions] into a different light and atmosphere." Science and religion might see the body in terms of its shameful parts, but the poet, lover of the whole, knows that "the human body and soul must remain an entirety." "That," insisted Whitman, "is what I felt in my inmost brain and heart, when I only answer'd Emerson's vehement arguments with silence, under the old elms of Boston Common."

Despite his erotic epiphany, Whitman was upset by his walk with Emerson. Had no one understood his earlier poetry? Had no one seen its philosophy? The body is the soul. How many times had he written that? In how many different ways? And if the body is the soul, then how can the body be censored? As he wrote in "I Sing the Body Electric," the central poem of "Enfans d'Adam":

O my body! I dare not desert the likes of you in other men and women, nor the likes of the parts of you,
And so, against Emerson's wishes, Whitman published "Enfans d'Adam." As Emerson predicted, the poems were greeted with cries of indignation. One reviewer said "that quotations from the 'Enfans d'Adam' poems would be an offence against decency too gross to be tolerated." But Whitman didn't care. As usual, he wrote his own anonymous reviews. He knew that if his poetry were to last, it must leave nothing out. It must be candid, and it must be true.

(Continues…)


Excerpted from "Proust Was a Neuroscientist"
by .
Copyright © 2007 Jonah Lehrer.
Excerpted by permission of Houghton Mifflin Harcourt Publishing Company.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.

Table of Contents

Prelude ix

1. Walt Whitman The Substance of Feeling 1

2. George Eliot The Biology of Freedom 25

3. Auguste Escoffier The Essence of Taste 53

4. Marcel Proust The Method of Memory 75

5. Paul Cézanne The Process of Sight 96

6. Igor Stravinsky The Source of Music 120

7. Gertrude Stein The Structure of Language 144

8. Virginia Woolf The Emergent Self 168

Coda 190

Acknowledgments 199

Notes 201

Bibliography 216

Index 231

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Proust Was a Neuroscientist 4 out of 5 based on 0 ratings. 34 reviews.
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
Not only does the author have a complete and up-to-date understanding of the latest research in neuroscience, he must also have a broad grasp of literature, philosophy and the arts (even cooking!) to write so engagingly about the connections between neuroscience and these diverse areas. Linking the current understanding about how the brain works with each of these diverse arts the reader gets a deeper understanding of how we deal with life. What is it about music that moves us? What drove the evolution of art from realism to modern forms of art? What makes us like a painting. The history of science figured into all of the stories as it drove changes in literature and philosophy as each metaphore of science became the latest influence ie the clockwork universe of Newton, and the steam engine metaphore that influenced Freud. When I finished the book I understood not only what infuenced the great authors, artists, poets, musicians and cooks but why people then and now find them interesting. And, of course, all this erudition is the background for illustrating the working of the mind in a delightful way.
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
The material in the book is fascinating and current. The book is great because it makes the science it describes interesting for those with a science background and simultaneously for those who know little to nothing about science.
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
I bought this book because it had my favorite cookie on the cover but I have become so incredibly obsessed with modern science because of it. The author has a knack for making science seem exciting and cool. I can't recommend this book enough!!
rayzern More than 1 year ago
I love this author; perhaps I am late to get onto the neuroscience bandwagon, but I found this to be a very well-written and provocative book, though a little short in length and short on conclusions. I read "Imagine" as well and found them both to be very interesting and well-written books. I want to encourage this author and will probably buy his books in the future, as long as he truly puts some effort into them. I love to read books like this which do not assume the reader is an idiot. Good read and I definitely appreciate his research and thoughtfulness. Would definitely recommend.
cantstopreading39 More than 1 year ago
Connecting his experience in science with knowledge of arts and artists, Lehrer provides challenging and exciting insights into how we work and what is possible to human intelligence. He explores various artists' achievements in literature, music, painting and cooking and shows how they foreshadowed scientific discoveries. Left me pondering each point and exploring where else the same ideas may apply. If you're ready to stretch your mind, this is your starting point.
Othemts on LibraryThing More than 1 year ago
his book explores the work of eight artists and how their art revealed truths about the human brain that would later be discovered through science. A quick search of Google brings up several reviews that dismiss Lehrer's work as "popular science" but I think they're missing the point that readers can learn scientific concepts through an artistic lens. Of course, with my humanities background I'm biased to the idea that the arts have something to offer to scientific study. The artists include Walt Whitman (feeling), George Eliot (malleability of the brain), Auguste Escoffier (taste), Marcel Proust (memory), Paul Cezane (vision), Igor Stravinsky (music), Gertrude Stein (language), and Virginia Woolf (self). The conclusion of the book is an appeal to end the artificial divide between arts and sciences that I strongly support.Favorite Passages:

"Nature, however, writes astonishingly complicated prose. If our DNA has a literary equivalent, it¿s Finnegan¿s Wake."

treesap on LibraryThing More than 1 year ago
Lehrer steps out boldly and perhaps brashly as he weaves together tales of revolutionary artists and their (so-called) prescient views of the human mind. Though sometimes a bit arbitrary and melodramatic, each chapter contains thoughtful insights into the dynamic interplay between a particular artist and the science of the artist's time and/or of modern times. Artist readers will glean fascinating insights into current neuroscience, and scientists will begin to fill in the gaps of artists who may only be only familiar by name. Lehrer's goal is to provide more than vignettes of artists interested in the workings of the mind. While not saying anything profoundly new, Lehrer reminds us of the importance of appreciating truth from a range of disciplines. He seeks to free the reader to appreciate the "other" sources as valid, and it is clear that he especially has the scientist in mind when he stretches to show that the artists were "discovering" truths about the mind long ago. Whether Lehrer's particular characters work for the story he seeks to sell is up to the individual reader, but his point is made irregardless. Overall, a pleasant and informative recasting. ..With a line that should be repeated often: "The one reality science cannot reduce is the only reality we will ever know. This is why we need art."
cajela on LibraryThing More than 1 year ago
I really enjoyed every separate chapter of this book. It's a series of essays, each of which explores the work of an artist, and how his or her work anticipated some scientific discovery on the nature of the mind and our perceptions. We have, among others, Whitman on the embodiedness of the mind and emotion; Escoffier anticipating the discovery of umami; Cezanne exploring sight; Stein exploring language; and of course, Proust on memory. Each chapter shares the same theme: the art, and then the science that later confirms that the artist's insight was correct. Lehrer makes a strong case for the role of art in exploring and communicating the subjectivity of human experience. But what I found very odd is that his framing discussion contradicts his essays. He seems to be drawing out a lesson that Art can teach us things that Science Can Not Know. But in each case, he has quite explicitly spelled out the science that actually *does* know, as a demonstration than his chosen artists were right. Wait, what? There's also an uncomfortable cherry picking feel to it. With enough artists exploring in enough directions, somebody's bound to be aiming the right way. In the chapter on Cezanne, Lehrer discusses Cezanne's friend Zola, whose art reflected a theme of genetic determinism which time has not been kind to... so if the science had come out the other way, perhaps Zola might have been his featured artist?
Niecierpek on LibraryThing More than 1 year ago
The profound understanding of human nature we feel good art shows is officially not an illusion. Lehrer discusses the intimations great artists had about the nature of the brain, consciousness, perception, and senses that have been confirmed by recent scientific research. In particular, he chooses a few great writers, a painter, a composer, and a chef and shows how their insights proved to be true in light of modern experimental science. He talks about Walt Whitman, and his insight into the lack of duality between the mind and the body (mind is the body) and importance of feelings in our intellectual functioning, Proust and the nature of memory, George Eliot and free will, brain plasticity, and our ability to change, and Virginia Woolf and her great insights into consciousness and the nature of human `self¿. Then he shows how Cezanne intimated the true nature of visual perception and Stravinsky of how we apprehend music. And, the part I found the most interesting and novel of all, how a French and then a Japanese chef came to find the essence of `deliciousness¿, and how it related to the research on how we perceive taste.Lehrer¿s insight is that there are many ways that may be equally valid to lead us into the nature of things. Art may offer a profound understanding into the workings of our brain, the understanding that¿s in no less true and legitimate than quantifiable scientific research. To take matters further, he speaks about the limitations of science and about the inadequacy of the third culture (and science popularizers like Pinker, Dawkins, Wilson, for example) to embrace the more ambiguous realms. He advocates the necessity of a `fourth culture¿- the bridge between humanities and experimental science.The whole book signals a recent noticeable departure, notably in The Head Trip as well, of some of the younger generation scientists from what Lehrer calls `reductionist science¿. He means science that concerns itself only with the measurable and observable, and which ignores its own limitations and solutions and insights offered by other, less measurable sources like art, even though art can comfortably live with uncertainty to which much recent and not so recent research points as a fact of existence. Some truths may never be fully known through scientific means, yet each part of our existence (feelings and subjective insights included) can offer truths that are equally scientifically valid.A great read. I loved how it wove literature, art, brain research and a broader humanistic view of human nature together.
birdy55 on LibraryThing More than 1 year ago
great book. Gave copy to my neurologist.
NativeRoses on LibraryThing More than 1 year ago
A playful, fascinating little book that weaves the history of scientific studies of consciousness through the work of eight pathbreaking artists. The author's description of the work and milieu of artists who were initially rejected - Stravinsky, Stein, and Cezanne - is particularly insightful when related to our latest neurological understandings. For example, he explains how we create meaning from photons and the five neural layers of vision when discussing Cezanne. Neuroscience and the relation between thoughts and the body is used to examine Whitman. Neurogenesis and the creation of memory illuminates Marcel Proust's inquiry into the transcendent nature of memory. Eliot collided with her time's understandings of biological determinism and evolutionary theory. And so forth ... the author's writing becomes the most rhapsodic when he describes Escoffier's advances in cooking. A true pleasure to read. I'm trying not to hold it against the author that he's only 25. (punk)
wvlibrarydude on LibraryThing More than 1 year ago
Explores the relationship of artists and scientists in the exploration of truth in regards to how our brain interacts with the world around us. My favorite chapters were Eliot/Freedom, Escoffier/Taste, Proust/Memory, Cezanne/Sight, and Woolf/Self.
pescatello on LibraryThing More than 1 year ago
A very interesting book that is also very well-written. At the end of the day though it was too long winded for me to get really engrossed in it.
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