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A review by sjgrodsky
Hello Darkness, My Old Friend: How Daring Dreams and Unyielding Friendship Turned One Man's Blindness Into an Extraordinary Vision for Life by Sanford D. Greenberg
3.0
I have rarely been as happy to turn the last page as I was with this book. It’s a selection of my book club, so I felt compelled to at least skim to the final page (282), though my patience with Sandy Greenberg sank to zero after the Schindler’s List movie anecdote on page 206.
This sounds so mean, so unsympathetic. Don’t I feel for someone who went blind at the tender age of 19? Don’t I admire his substantive accomplishments? Don’t I recognize his charitable contributions?
The answers are all yes. But I also see a sense of entitlement that dwarfs these other qualities. That entitlement comes out in many ways, but the movie anecdote dramatizes it. Sandy, I wanted to ask, since you are such a smart guy, can’t you figure out that talking during a movie ruins it for five to 10 other people? Why do you think you have that right? Why is your enjoyment more important than the enjoyment of 10 others?
I felt a similar impatience with his refusal to use a cane. It’s his choice, but he subjects others to delay and possible injury as he flounders through public spaces, knocking into doors and falling down stairs.
He evidently doesn’t realize — or doesn’t care — that his selfish choices make life more difficult for family, colleagues, and random strangers.
That said, you might enjoy at least some parts of this narrative. The first chapter (“Strangers in a Train”) is terrific. As the book progresses (and the hand of the professional writer is removed) the prose sinks into turgidity. Greenberg has probably been told that you should not end a sentence with a preposition and, clumsy sentence structure be damned, he will NEVER violate that diktat.
I was left wondering about Art Garfunkel, Greenberg’s roommate, essential helper, the godfather of his children, and lifelong best friend. Garfunkel is hard to figure out from Greenberg’s descriptions; Garfunkel’s own words, in his introduction, are more obtuse than enlightening.
Memoirs often include some score-settling. This one does too: although Greenberg doesn’t name names, he includes enough detail so you know it’s Henry Kissinger who borrowed Greenberg’s tape recorder, broke it, and required several demands before he reimbursed a scholarship student for the replacement. It appears that Kissinger feels even more entitled than Greenberg.
I often ask myself if I’d want to have coffee with the author. I would in this case if Sandy agreed in advance that he’d tell me about the many interesting people he knew (Art Garfunkel, Ruth Bader Ginsburg, LBJ, Margaret Mead), but minimize the self congratulations.
—Notes as I read—
On page 52, the author quotes a letter his girlfriend (later wife) wrote him while they were both college students. The letter is set in italic type.
The last line is clearly the author’s commentary on the letter itself. It should have been set as anew paragraph and in regular, not italic type.
It’s certainly easy to make errors like this, especially if you are blind and cannot see the screen. But that is why editors and proofreaders are supposed to read manuscripts and proofs. Sigh.
And there are some parts that are just plain wrong, as when, on page 57, the author describes attending Yom
Kippur services “just as the High Holidays were beginning.” Umm, Sandy, no, the High Holidays begin with Rosh Hashanah, 10 days before Yom
Kippur. Sandy tells us that he attended an orthodox shul, so he should know this.
The first chapter is terrific. I suspect Greenberg had help from a professional writer. Later chapters sink into turgidity.
I am breathless at the NAMES he had as teachers. At Columbia, it was Margaret Mead, Henry Steele Commager, Allan Nevins. At Harvard, Henry Kissinger.
He was born in 1942 or so, went to single-sex schools.. So I suppose his old fashioned attitude towards his wife is to be expected. I wish we’d learned a little more about who she was, not just what she did for him.
This sounds so mean, so unsympathetic. Don’t I feel for someone who went blind at the tender age of 19? Don’t I admire his substantive accomplishments? Don’t I recognize his charitable contributions?
The answers are all yes. But I also see a sense of entitlement that dwarfs these other qualities. That entitlement comes out in many ways, but the movie anecdote dramatizes it. Sandy, I wanted to ask, since you are such a smart guy, can’t you figure out that talking during a movie ruins it for five to 10 other people? Why do you think you have that right? Why is your enjoyment more important than the enjoyment of 10 others?
I felt a similar impatience with his refusal to use a cane. It’s his choice, but he subjects others to delay and possible injury as he flounders through public spaces, knocking into doors and falling down stairs.
He evidently doesn’t realize — or doesn’t care — that his selfish choices make life more difficult for family, colleagues, and random strangers.
That said, you might enjoy at least some parts of this narrative. The first chapter (“Strangers in a Train”) is terrific. As the book progresses (and the hand of the professional writer is removed) the prose sinks into turgidity. Greenberg has probably been told that you should not end a sentence with a preposition and, clumsy sentence structure be damned, he will NEVER violate that diktat.
I was left wondering about Art Garfunkel, Greenberg’s roommate, essential helper, the godfather of his children, and lifelong best friend. Garfunkel is hard to figure out from Greenberg’s descriptions; Garfunkel’s own words, in his introduction, are more obtuse than enlightening.
Memoirs often include some score-settling. This one does too: although Greenberg doesn’t name names, he includes enough detail so you know it’s Henry Kissinger who borrowed Greenberg’s tape recorder, broke it, and required several demands before he reimbursed a scholarship student for the replacement. It appears that Kissinger feels even more entitled than Greenberg.
I often ask myself if I’d want to have coffee with the author. I would in this case if Sandy agreed in advance that he’d tell me about the many interesting people he knew (Art Garfunkel, Ruth Bader Ginsburg, LBJ, Margaret Mead), but minimize the self congratulations.
—Notes as I read—
On page 52, the author quotes a letter his girlfriend (later wife) wrote him while they were both college students. The letter is set in italic type.
The last line is clearly the author’s commentary on the letter itself. It should have been set as anew paragraph and in regular, not italic type.
It’s certainly easy to make errors like this, especially if you are blind and cannot see the screen. But that is why editors and proofreaders are supposed to read manuscripts and proofs. Sigh.
And there are some parts that are just plain wrong, as when, on page 57, the author describes attending Yom
Kippur services “just as the High Holidays were beginning.” Umm, Sandy, no, the High Holidays begin with Rosh Hashanah, 10 days before Yom
Kippur. Sandy tells us that he attended an orthodox shul, so he should know this.
The first chapter is terrific. I suspect Greenberg had help from a professional writer. Later chapters sink into turgidity.
I am breathless at the NAMES he had as teachers. At Columbia, it was Margaret Mead, Henry Steele Commager, Allan Nevins. At Harvard, Henry Kissinger.
He was born in 1942 or so, went to single-sex schools.. So I suppose his old fashioned attitude towards his wife is to be expected. I wish we’d learned a little more about who she was, not just what she did for him.