I remember the bookstore in Buffalo where I found “The Man Who Mistook His Wife for a Hat” in 1985. I finished the book before I went to bed.
Starting the next day, I relied on the work of Oliver Sacks to buttress, accentuate, and explain all manner of arguments and insights. Over the years I continued to collect his books and eagerly read pieces he published in The New Yorker and The New York Review of Books.
I cannot count the times I must have been full of shit – relying on Sacks as an authority. To be clear: his shit.
