More than by its omissions and its persistent defects of tone, The Noonday Demon is undone by Solomon's resolutely narrow method of inquiry. The pseudo-clinical manner of these proclamations reaches a disturbing apogee when Solomon, again using himself as the prism through which all meaning is refracted, discusses the connection between violence and depression. His chapters on these subjects handily summarize much of the existing literature, and give some context to the many debates that depression raises.But the presentation of this data suffers from Solomon's extraordinary ability to make any given piece of information relate to him. Solomon can be commended for undertaking what was undoubtedly intensive research, and for even attempting to tackle the profusion of forms depression takes, reaching into the realms of biology, philosophy, politics, gender and - a category often ignored - class. And yet few books on depression deserve to be criticized as much as this one, all the more because it is poised to become definitive. It is difficult to criticize a book in which the author repeatedly reminds the reader of the harrowing mental anguish experienced while writing it critical reproaches are, one fears, the epitome of kicking someone while he's down. As an 'atlas,' it depicts a world view whose cardinal points are me, myself and I.

Read Full Review >Įven judged solely by the standards of the memoir, The Noonday Demon is remarkably self-indulgent.

takes what is a depressingly familiar tale, and makes it speak lessons of far wider import. The Noonday Demon is formidably well researched: Solomon has a particularly keen touch with quotations and the testimony of others, building up a rich polylogue where other writers have settled for stark midnight soliloquy. Solomon is scrupulously inclusive - like a wise Narcotics Anonymous chairperson, who leads strangers straight to the most pertinent part of their story, the parts of speech that are both messily singular and chimingly common. His own pain serves as a conduit to wider quandaries, where too many writers remain hypnotised by the dark mirror of disclosure. Solomon is one of those New Yorker-trained writers who can charm the peacocks onto the lawn with mere statistical ballast he is acutely aware of the contradictions at every turn of his tale, and the investigative reporter in him overrides the easier impulse to self-dramatisation. get past the icky profiles that have attended Andrew Solomon - Prozac's doe-eyed poster boy - and you find an exemplary text.

The noonday demon