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2 of 2 people found the following review helpful:
1.0 out of 5 stars
Please *stop* giving this book to bipolar friends, Jun 24 2002
Kay Jamison's smug, self-serving, self-satisfied account of her experience with bipolar disorder is just not the sort of thing one should inflict on a lesser being (e.g., anyone who is not Dr. Jamison.) For the love of God, stop buying this book for sufferers: we already have it, we bitterly despise it, and the recycling guy is on record that he will not pick up another copy.The essence of a disease memoir is humility. When I audit another soul's trip through hell, I'm looking for glimmers, resonances, unplaceable smells, I'm trying to find shared shapes, to find my memory within the author's. It's a collaborative thing, this secondhand journey, and it only happens when an author is honest enough to speak from the heart. Jamison's strident voice of self-congratulation, though, derails any semblance of empathy. Several years back I resided at alt.support.depression, one of the more chaotic newsgroups on the usenet system. A thread got going re Unquiet Mind, and the prevailing opinion was that Jamison was just too groovy to afford an honest account of manic depression. Someone wrote to the effect that, while Kay was brewing up lobsters in Scotland, he was in restraints at UCLA. For me, that's always nailed the problem with Jamison as a supposed spokesperson for my disease: she goes to such lengths to establish her credentials as an admirable normie that she cannot bring herself to write about the truly horrifying aspects of the mental illness experience. She writes well enough: her objects agree with her verbs, she doesn't misuse the apostrophe. You could say she is educated, in a superficial, aren't I cute kind of way. But the insistent subvocal self promotion becomes a nails-on-the-chalkboard harmonic for nearly every paragraph. She makes Patty Duke look like Camus.
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