Summary
An extraordinary memoir about the cutting-edge brain therapy that dramatically changed the life and mind of John Elder Robison, the New York Times bestselling author of Look Me in the Eye
NAMED ONE OF THE BEST BOOKS OF THE YEAR BY THE WASHINGTON POST
Imagine spending the first forty years of your life in darkness, blind to the emotions and social signals of other people. Then imagine that someone suddenly switches the lights on.
It has long been assumed that people living with autism are born with the diminished ability to read the emotions of others, even as they feel emotion deeply. But what if we've been wrong all this time? What if that "missing" emotional insight was there all along, locked away and inaccessible in the mind?
In 2007 John Elder Robison wrote the international bestseller Look Me in the Eye, a memoir about growing up with Asperger's syndrome. Amid the blaze of publicity that followed, he received a unique invitation: Would John like to take part in a study led by one of the world's foremost neuroscientists, who would use an experimental new brain therapy known as TMS, or transcranial magnetic stimulation, in an effort to understand and then address the issues at the heart of autism? Switched On is the extraordinary story of what happened next.
Having spent forty years as a social outcast, misreading others' emotions or missing them completely, John is suddenly able to sense a powerful range of feelings in other people. However, this newfound insight brings unforeseen problems and serious questions. As the emotional ground shifts beneath his feet, John struggles with the very real possibility that choosing to diminish his disability might also mean sacrificing his unique gifts and even some of his closest relationships. Switched On is a real-life Flowers for Algernon, a fascinating and intimate window into what it means to be neurologically different, and what happens when the world as you know it is upended overnight.
Praise for Switched On
"An eye-opening book with a radical message . . . The transformations [Robison] undergoes throughout the book are astonishing--as foreign and overwhelming as if he woke up one morning with the visual range of a bee or the auditory prowess of a bat." -- The New York Times
"Astonishing, brave . . . reads like a medical thriller and keeps you wondering what will happen next . . . [Robison] takes readers for a ride through the thorny thickets of neuroscience and leaves us wanting more." -- The Washington Post
"Fascinating for its insights into Asperger's and research, this engrossing record will make readers reexamine their preconceptions about this syndrome and the future of brain manipulation." -- Booklist
"Like books by Andrew Solomon and Oliver Sacks, Switched On offers an opportunity to consider mental processes through a combination of powerful narrative and informative medical context." -- BookPage
"A mind-blowing book that will force you to ask deep questions about what is important in life. Would normalizing the brains of those who think differently reduce their motivation for great achievement?" --Temple Grandin, author of The Autistic Brain
"At the heart of Switched On are fundamental questions of who we are, of where our identity resides, of difference and disability and free will, which are brought into sharp focus by Robison's lived experience." --Graeme Simsion, author of The Rosie Effect
Author Notes
John Elder Robison was born in Athens, Georgia in the summer of 1957. His father was a professor of Philosophy in Amherst, Massachusetts. His brother is Augusten Burroughs, author of Running with Scissors.
Growing up John did not know he had Aspergers. He did know that he had a rare insight into electronics. With that knowledge, he joined a band, and ended up designing special effects guitars for KISS by the late 1970s. Afterward, he was an engineer with a major toy and game company. He moved up the corporate ladder for many years, and then became unable to function in the high social climate of the corporate wold.
He began fixing Mercedes and Land Rover cars in his driveway and opened his own car repair specialty shop---J E Robison Service. Eventually he was diagnosed by a therapist as having Aspergers. "Look Me in the Eye" is his honest and touching memoir.
(Bowker Author Biography)
Publisher's Weekly Review
Robison's second memoir is honest, scientific, personal, and full of rock and roll. It follows his life after the years recounted in his 2007 memoir, Look Me in the Eyes, and reads in many ways like a coming-of-age novel. After Robison was diagnosed with Asperger syndrome, he participated in an experimental transcranial magnetic stimulation (TMS) study, which changed his life. Robison reflects on what he learned while delving into the science behind autism treatment and celebrating the people who were with him through truly difficult moments along a path of self-discovery. He emphasizes that the TMS treatment is new and experimental, and though his experiences are mostly positive and the treatment has real potential, not everyone who undergoes it responds the same way. Robison's memoir contains as much vulnerability and honesty as it does discussions of neuroscience and autism. (Mar.) © Copyright PWxyz, LLC. All rights reserved.
Kirkus Review
The bestselling author shares his experience as a participant in a cutting-edge study of the effects of transcranial magnetic stimulation on the brains of people on the autism spectrum. A team of Harvard neuroscientists hoped that stimulating the outer layer of the brain might induce it to rewire itself and increase its emotional IQ. Robison (Raising Cubby: A Father and Son's Adventures with Asperger's, Trains, Tractors, and High Explosives, 2013, etc.) explains that those on the autism spectrum are not unemotional or uncaring but rather lack self-awareness and the ability to read and respond empathetically to the emotions of others. They miss cues such as tone of voice and facial expression. Because of this, their responses may be inappropriate. Robison relates how, despite his success in a number of fields, he was frustrated by his social disability, which hampered his social relationships. In his youth, he engineered sound and lighting systems for leading rock groups, and he went on to a corporate job designing electronic games. Currently, he owns a business restoring high-end automobiles. In the past decade, the author has also gained recognition as a writer and consultant on autism. For six months, Robison received TMS on a weekly basis. Before and after, he was tested at the lab and also discussed his experience of the treatment with the scientists. He had always loved music but in an abstract way; now, when listening, he felt intense emotions. The author writes movingly of how his response to other people developed a depth previously lacking, and his own responses became more expressive. Within this new mindset, his wife's chronic depression induced a painfully depressed feeling in him, and for the first time, he recognized subtle mockery from someone he thought to be a friend. Although his emotions flattened out somewhat after the sessions ended, he has experienced a lasting emotional sensitivity. He is optimistic about the direction of the research. A fascinating companion to the previous memoirs by this masterful storyteller. Copyright Kirkus Reviews, used with permission.
Booklist Review
Robison, who shared his late-life diagnosis and life as an Asperger's patient in Look Me in the Eye (2007), continues with his experiences as a volunteer in a transcranial magnetic stimulation (TMS) experiment. Like most Asperger's patients, he struggles to move beyond the literal in conversation and read emotional nuances in social interactions. In the TMS experiment, researchers attempt to rewire the brain by pinpoint electrical shocks to carefully selected locations in the hope of stimulating those abilities. Robison's reactions are eye-opening, if temporary. The music-technician-turned-car-mechanic is suddenly able to detect emotion within the music. Reading brings him to tears. His wife's depression becomes overwhelming to him. His carefully controlled world is suddenly rocked, and he finds himself reexamining his life and relationships. Robison has an uncanny ability to describe his thoughts and feelings and is painfully honest about the pluses and minuses of the experience. Fascinating for its insights into Asperger's and research, this engrossing record will make readers reexamine their preconceptions about this syndrome and the future of brain manipulation.--Smith, Candace Copyright 2016 Booklist
Excerpts
The Right Sort 1979 Whatever Mum's saying's drowned out by the grimy roar of the bus pulling away, revealing a pub called The Fox and Hounds. The sign shows three beagles cornering a fox. They're about to pounce and rip it apart. A street sign underneath says westwood road.Lords and ladies are supposed to be rich, so I was expecting swimming pools and Lamborghinis, but Westwood Road looks pretty normal to me. Normal brick houses, detached or semidetached, with little front gardens and normal cars. The damp sky's the color ofold hankies. Seven magpies fly by. Seven's good. Mum's face is inches away from mine, though I'm not sure if that's an angry face or a worried one. "Nathan? Are you even listening?" Mum's wearing make-up today. That shade of lipstick's called Morning Lilac but it smells more like Pritt Stick than lilacs.Mum's face hasn't gone away, so I say, "What?" "It's 'Pardon' or 'Excuse me.' Not 'What?' " "Okay," I say, which often does the trick. Not today. "Did you hear what I told you?" " 'It's "Pardon" or "Excuse me." Not "What?" ' " "Before that! I said, if anyone at Lady Grayer's asks how we came here, you're to tell them we arrived by taxi." "I thought lying was wrong." "There's lying," says Mum, fishing out the envelope she wrote the directions on from her handbag, "which is wrong, and there's creating the right impression, which is necessary. If your father paid what he's supposed to pay, we really would have arrivedby taxi. Now . . ." Mum squints at her writing. "Slade Alley leads off Westwood Road, about halfway down . . ." She checks her watch. "Right, it's ten to three, and we're due at three. Chop-chop. Don't dawdle." Off Mum walks. I follow, not stepping on any of the cracks. Sometimes I have to guess where the cracks are because the pavement's mushy with fallen leaves. At one point I had to step out of the way of a man with huge fists jogging by in a black and orange tracksuit.Wolverhampton Wanderers play in black and orange. Shining berries hang from a mountain ash. I'd like to count them, but the clip-clop-clip-clop of Mum's heels pulls me on. She bought the shoes at John Lewis's sale with the last of the money the Royal College of Music paid her, even though British Telecom sent a final reminder to pay the telephone bill. She's wearing her dark blue concert outfit and her hair up with the silverfox-head hairpin. Her dad brought it back from Hong Kong after World War Two. When Mum's teaching a student and I have to make myself scarce, I sometimes go to Mum's dressing table and get the fox out. He's got jade eyes and on some days he smiles, on othershe doesn't. I don't feel well knitted today, but the Valium should kick in soon. Valium's great. I took two pills. I'll have to miss a few next week so Mum won't notice her supply's going down. My tweed jacket's scratchy. Mum got it from Oxfam specially for today, and the bow tie's from Oxfam, too. Mum volunteers there on Mondays so she can get the best of the stuffpeople bring in on Saturdays. If Gaz Ingram or anyone in his gang sees me in this bow tie, I'll find a poo in my locker, guaranteed. Mum says I have to learn how to Blend In more, but there aren't any classes for Blending In, not even on the town library noticeboard. There's a Dungeons & Dragons club advertised there, and I always want to go, but Mum says I can't because Dungeons & Dragons is playing with dark forces. Through one front window I see horse racing. That's Grandstand on BBC1. The next three windows havenet curtains, but then I see a TV with wrestling on it. That's Giant Haystacks the hairy baddie fighting Big Daddy the bald goodie on ITV. Eight houses later I see Godzilla on BBC2. He knocks down a pylon just by blundering into it and a Japanese fireman witha sweaty face is shouting into a radio. Now Godzilla's picked up a train, which makes no sense because amphibians don't have thumbs. Maybe Godzilla's thumb's like a panda's so-called thumb, which is really an evolved claw. Maybe-- "Nathan!" Mum's got my wrist. "What did I say about dawdling?" I check back. " 'Chop-chop!'; 'Don't dawdle.' " "So what are you doing now?" "Thinking about Godzilla's thumbs." Mum shuts her eyes. "Lady Grayer has invited me--us--to a musical gathering. A soirée. There'll be people who care about music there. People from the Arts Council, people who award jobs, grants." Mum's eyes have tiny red veins like rivers photographed from very high up. "I'd rather you were at home playing with your Battle of the Boers landscape too, but Lady Grayer insisted you comealong, so . . . you have to act normal. Can you do that? Please? Think of the most normal boy in your class, and do what he'd do." Acting Normal's like Blending In. "I'll try. But it's not the Battle of the Boers, it's the Boer War. Your ring's digging into my wrist." Mum lets go of my wrist. That's better. I don't know what her face is saying. * * * Slade Alley's the narrowest alley I've ever seen. It slices between two houses, then vanishes left after thirty paces or so. I can imagine a tramp living there in a cardboard box, but not a lord and lady. "No doubt there'll be a proper entrance on the far side," says Mum. "Slade House is only the Grayers' town residence. Their proper home's in Cambridgeshire." If I had 50p for every time Mum's told me that, I'd now have £3.50. It's cold and clammy in the alley like White Scar Cave in the Yorkshire Dales. Dad took me when I was ten. I find a dead cat lying on the ground at the first corner. It's gray like duston the moon. I know it's dead because it's as still as a dropped bag, and because big flies are drinking from its eyes. How did it die? There's no bullet wound or fang marks, though its head's at a slumped angle so maybe it was strangled by a cat-strangler.It goes straight into the Top Five of the Most Beautiful Things I've Ever Seen. Maybe there's a tribe in Papua New Guinea who think the droning of flies is music. Maybe I'd fit in with them. "Come along, Nathan." Mum's tugging my sleeve. I ask, "Shouldn't it have a funeral? Like Gran did?" "No. Cats aren't human beings. Come along." "Shouldn't we tell its owner it won't be coming home?" "How? Pick it up and go along Westwood Road knocking on all the doors saying, 'Excuse me, is this your cat?' " Mum sometimes has good ideas. "It'd take a bit of time, but--" "Forget it, Nathan--we're due at Lady Grayer's right now." "But if we don't bury it, crows'll peck out its eyes." "We don't have a spade or a garden round here." "Lady Grayer should have a spade and a garden." Mum closes her eyes again. Maybe she's got a headache. "This conversation is over." She pulls me away and we go down the middle section of Slade Alley. It's about five houses long, I'd guess, but hemmed in by brick walls so high you can't see anything.Just sky. "Keep your eyes peeled for a small black iron door," says Mum, "set into the right-hand wall." But we walk all the way to the next corner, and it's ninety-six paces exactly, and thistles and dandelions grow out of cracks, but there's no door. Afterthe right turn we go another twenty paces until we're out on the street parallel to Westwood Road. A sign says cranbury avenue. Parked opposite's a St. John's ambulance. Someone's written clean me in the dirt above the back wheel. The driver's got a broken nose and he's speaking into a radio. A mod drives past on a scooter like off Quadrophenia, riding without a helmet. "Riding without a helmet's against the law," I say. "Makes no sense," says Mum, staring at the envelope. "Unless you're a Sikh with a turban. Then the police'll--" " 'A small black iron door': I mean . . . how did we miss it?" I know. For me, Valium's like Asterix's magic potion, but it makes Mum dopey. She called me Frank yesterday--Dad's name--and didn't notice. She gets two prescriptions for Valium from two doctors because one's not enough, but-- --a dog barks just inches away and I've shouted and jumped back in panic and peed myself a bit, but it's okay, it's okay, there's a fence, and it's only a small yappy dog, it's not a bull mastiff, it's not that bull mastiff, and it was only a bit of pee.Still, my heart's hammering like mad and I feel like I might puke. Mum's gone out into Cranbury Avenue to look for big gates to a big house, and hasn't even noticed the yappy dog. A bald man in overalls walks up, carrying a bucket and a pair of stepladdersover his shoulder. He's whistling "I'd Like to Teach the World to Sing (in Perfect Harmony)." Mum cuts in. "Excuse me, do you know Slade House?" The whistling and the man stop. "Do I know What House?" "Slade House. It's Lady Norah Grayer's residence." Excerpted from Switched On by John Elder Robison All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.