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.