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The book is divided into three parts, illustrating its interdisciplinary approach. Part I: Cognitive, Neurological and Pathological Perspectives. Part II: Conscious and Nonconscious Aspects of Memory and Belief: From Social Judgments to Brain Mechanisms. Part II: Memory and Belief in Autobiographical Recall and Autobiography.
The last is of particular interest to the non-scientist interested in ideas of 'self' and the construction of autobiography. The articles in part III include: 'Constructing and Appraising Past Selves' (by Michael Ross and Anne Wilson), 'Memory and Belief in Development' (by Katherine Nelson), 'Autobiography, Identity and the Fictions of Memory' (by Paul John Eakin), and 'Autobiography as Moral Battleground' (by Sissela Bok). There is a conclusion written by Antonio Damasio.
The issue of memory, false memory, autobiography and the self are critical for subjects such as anthropology, sociology, philosophy, history and theology, yet too often thses subjects in the social sciences and humanities completely ignore the findings and theories of science. Here, they are brought together in a format eminently readable to the non-specialist. As this process continues, led by innovative minds such as Schacter, there will no longer be any excuse for scholars to shame themselves in their ignorance.
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In a dozen intensely personal and readable chapters - among them "Writing," "Dressing," "Laughing," "Speaking and Listening," "Cleaning and Decorating," "Lying," "Reading," and others on sex and sexual preferences and practices, Harris generously hosts a tour - of his past, his present, and himself. He doesn't stint on self-criticism, either. In fact, he pathologizes his often quite harmless behaviors sometimes. Does he not know that hardly any men throw out old T-shirts? He has not talked to wives, for he seems to think there's something abnormal about his masculine habit of saving his worn-out clothes, calling it "my irrational tendency to hoard superannuated garments." You will laugh.
Harris grew up in "a liberal, middle class family," his father an accomplished Jewish academic and then a psychotherapist and his mother " a disaffected Southern Baptist, a country girl." He's appalled at some of his family tree - specifically, the Southern Baptist branch that lynched a black man. When he told his dad he was gay, his father thought it might be curable, and offered his son a home version of electro convulsive therapy. Harris smartly refused.
Sometimes it seems that he is his own worst enemy - but he's also his own best friend. He loves to shop, he can't afford expensive stuff, and his reportage is hilarious. He wants to be alone (needs to - in order to read and to write), and also longs for contact and communion. Life can be hard, and he tells you why. His lifelong best friend, a man named Philip, was killed tragically in Lebanon. He is "obsessed with straight men," and envies what he imagines is their easier lives, free of the fetishes and compulsions that Harris assumes are the ken of gay men. He loves conversation, and he's doubtless very good at it - but it distresses and disappoints him, because it is so inferior to his written words. But talk he must, and he deconstructs his conversational style ("I pour on the plain American accent so unconvincingly that at times my voice cracks like a prepubescent boy's, the mellifluousness of the elegant gay man giving way to the abrupt, hard-boiled delivery of a character out of a Raymond Chandler novel.") - along with dozens of other parts of his life. He writes about sex and his own proclivities, and traverses the complicated terrain of his own desires in intensely personal ways.
These are great autobiographical essays that are history, confession, and successful self-examination. Despite his protestations to the contrary, Harris is a brave and trusting man. In this self-deprecatingly titled book he's trusted his readers with his life. It's an act of faith, and of love. I enjoyed it thoroughly.