OF A GOLDEN AGE

I find it strange and sad that society moves toward regularizing everyone — rather than valuing and helping people with strange, interesting tendencies or abilities, we cram them into a more standard form. The obvious downside is the collapsing of individuality. Beyond that, though, are the consequences of trying to be or simply seem normal and conventional.

A more extreme example of this is hoarding, which is experiencing a strange media heyday at the intersection of disaster-porn and home makeover shows. Salon recently ran an interview with hoarding expert and Smith professor Randy Frost. He put the problem in a way I’d never thought of:

When most of us look at an object like a bottle cap, we think, “This is useless,” but a hoarder sees the shape and the color and the texture and the form. All these details give it value. Hoarding may not be a deficiency at all — it may be a special gift or a special ability. The problem is being able to control it.

People often wonder aloud what may have happened to some of the great artists in history if their esoteric habits and sometimes destructive personalities were chemically regulated. More than that, who knows how many of our most productive mathematicians and scientists experienced mild forms of autism, how many philosophers experienced enlightenment through bouts of depression, and so forth.

There is no reason for people to suffer when we have ways to ease their pain, and I’m not suggesting otherwise. But I do think we can understand and help in moderation, while not unnecessarily squashing anyone’s “special gifts.”

The one-size-fits-all problem shows up in more benign ways that are arguably as offensive. On a new Style Network show called Tacky House, people nominate their loved ones for a makeover of a room the nominator simply can’t stand because of its poor design.

In the episode I watched, a husband nominated his wife of several years who had designed a room in their home around the Martha’s Vineyard locale where they met and fell in love. She filled the room with arrangements of silk roses, flower-upholstered furniture, and all manner of pastel pinks. “I thought you loved this room,” she mumbled sadly. “How am I supposed to watch football in here?” he said.

Yes, the room was overkill, but there was so much love coming from the wife and so little appreciation coming from the husband that it was uncomfortable to watch. The show’s host corrected the woman’s memory in hindsight (“Martha’s Vineyard is a beach, it’s not full of roses,” he’d say. “But I loved the gardens there,” she’d answer) and wedged a new image into the room.

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Physician David Henry is in his mid thirties, his wife Norah her early twenties. The year is 1964. Norah is very pregnant and due to a non-commedia of errors her husband delivers the baby, which turns out to be babies, and the unexpected twin is born with Down syndrome. In a moment of wrenching reader discomfort, David sends the baby away with the obstetric nurse, giving her instructions to leave the baby at a nearby institution.

Oh, bother.

The nurse stops at the institution just long enough to look in and be rightfully horrified, then sweeps the baby up and embarks on a new life for them both. And the rest of the book follows the princess-and-the-pea festering of David’s one swift decision, this crooked root from which only a new and different kind of tree can grow. I can’t explain much of the rest of the plot without ruining important details.

Edwards writes beautifully, with lushness and luxury but without drag or pretension. The book’s very ending did not rub me the right way but I see its purpose and perhaps it speaks more clearly to other readers.

Letters form an important part of the narrative, as do photographs. David’s physician life folds in nicely with a sweet Journal of the American Medical Association essay about a grateful letter-writing patient.

Cannonball logo font: Sketch Rockwell. For more on the Cannonball Read, see Pajiba.

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