Look Me In The Eye
By John Elder Robison
In the buildup to Christmas, I asserted to my family I wanted to receive absolutely nothing, as I had everything I could possibly need or want. I made this request repeatedly. I made this demand vociferously. And—at times—the ask was accompanied with flagrant cursing.
Nonetheless my in-laws gave me a nicely-wrapped copied of Look Me in the Eye, a book about Asperger’s syndrome. The not-so-subtle message was received loud and clear.
This biographical sketch of author John Robison’s life was first published way back in 2008, after which it quickly became a New York Times bestseller. But I don’t quite understand how that’s possible.
The text is sophomoric, temporally sporadic, and—honestly—does little to coherently explain the complexities of living with Asperger’s or autism. And ironically, the book fails to engender any empathy for those suffering with an affliction marked by an (erroneously interpreted) lack of empathy for others. That’s unfortunate, given this statement from the book’s prologue:
“Asperger’s is not a disease. It’s a way of being. There is no cure, nor is there a need for one. There is, however, a need for knowledge and adaptation on the part of the Aspergian kids and their families and friends.”
Unfortunately, Robison’s stories about his many adolescent “pranks”—many of which involve abusing his younger sibling, wasting the time of first responders, or nearly causing wildfires—are less endearing than infuriating. And his stories as a working adult—like that of driving drunk around the island of Monserrat or discharging a revolver six times at a family motel in Orlando to dispatch a supposedly venomous snake—aren’t any better. Page after page, Robison comes off as a clueless, self-centered asshole (albeit an asshole gifted in electrical engineering and automotive repair.)
Throughout the text, the author offers little in the way of deeply insightful realizations. The opening of Chapter 16 is typical of what you find throughout the book. In trying to deduce why he—and others with Asperger’s—have an affinity for machines, Robison offers less-than-revolutionary insights such as, “machines don’t talk back” and “they’re never mean.” Mind not blown.
And as far as I’m concerned, any man who offers an entire chapter explaining—in all seriousness—how choosing his wife as no different than choosing a brand of chain saw isn’t someone from whom I should expect to learn nuanced life lessons.
I did, however, appreciate a bit of insight into how Robison—and perhaps others with Asperger’s—conceptualize what interpersonal conversation should be. Robison recognizes his own penchant for logical conversations that are more rational than relational. He spends a full chapter discussing his discomfort in responding after a coworker confided that, “One of my girlfriends is having an affair. And the guy rides a motorcycle just like yours.”
“Successful conversations require a give and take between both people.”
My own recent posts proclaim an affinity for efficient, no-frills dialogue that respects the time and energy of the listener. Perhaps I, too, have a touch of the Asperger’s. Maybe I’m not as “neurotypical” as I want to believe. At least, I’m willing to use that as an excuse for some of my own less-than-charitable behavior.
“An Aspergian child may grow up to be a brilliant engineer or scientist. Some have perfect pitch and otherworldly musical abilities. Many have such exceptional verbal skills that some people refer to the condition as Little Professor Syndrome.”
If Robison is himself a “little professor” it certainly wasn’t in creative writing. Overall, though, this book leaves me hopeful…that I, too, might eventually land my own drivel on the New York Times best seller list.
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