"On a clear May afternoon at the end of his junior year at Harvard, Howard Axelrod left his dorm-room to play a pick-up game of basketball. In the skirmish for a loose ball, a boy's finger hooked behind Axelrod's eyeball and severed his optic nerve. Permanently blinded in his right eye, Axelrod returned a week later to the same dorm-room, but to a different world. A world where nothing looked solid, where the smooth veneer of reality had been broken, and where the distance between how people saw him and how he saw had widened into a gulf. Five years later, heartbroken from a love affair in Italy and still desperate for a sense of orientation he could trust, Axelrod retreated to a jerry-rigged house in the Vermont woods. Miles from the nearest neighbor, at the dead-end of an unmaintained dirt road, he lived without a computer, without a television, and largely without human contact for two years. Whether tending to the woodstove, or snow-shoeing through the trees, he devoted his energies to learning to see again--to paying attention. He needed to find, with society's pressures and rush now removed, what really mattered. He needed to dig down to a sense of meaning that couldn't be changed in an instant. What followed was a strange and beautiful series of sensory adventures, shadowed by a haunting descent into the dangers of solitude. A gorgeous search into the profoundly human questions of perception, time, and identity, The Point of Vanishing announces the arrival of a major new literary voice of the timeless--which is to say, a major new voice for our harried times"--
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Howard Axelrod can write. I mean really write. He's such a craftstman that I can't possibly do his book justice in this review. Whether you end up finding the author's journey and insights as compelling as I did, surely any reader could appreciate his syntax and poetic style.
This memoir of both the traumatic loss of an eye and the subsequent upheaval of both his own and everyone else's expectations was particularly touching. Mr. Axelrod exposes himself and truly does end up seeing himself and the world. Before the accident, he was blindly following the path in front of him: going to class, picking up girls playing basketball with friends. Then the breakdown of communication. Of expectation. Of trusting his own senses, which so many of us take for granted. Of finding solace in a woman's arms.
While transitioning from childhood to adulthood is a theme that has been explored time and again, it is rarely presented as both sharp and blurry in such elegant prose that I had to put the book down regularly simply to let the words wash through me. Does Mr. Axelrod tell us every detail of his days in near solitude? No, we aren't sure how he spends each day. What he remembers are those memories that shimmer or that clang at him like a rusty bell.