I never thought I really knew or understood my brother,

Oscar.  There seemed to be something special about him which

I (and perhaps others) were conscious of, though we would

have found it difficult to characterize, much less to understand.

He was dreamy, abstracted, deeply introspective; he seemed (more than

any of us) to live in a world of his

own, though he read deeply and constantly, and had the

most amazing memory for his reading. He developed a particular

preference for Nicholas Nickleby and David Copperfield, and knew the

entire, immense books by heart and would declaim them constantly.


Paraphrases from the memoir Uncle Tungsten by Oliver Sacks.