Viking, 270 pp., $14.75
Lewis Thomas's autobiography is, in many good ways, a deceptive book. Its two parts read, superficially, like a reverie, full of cozy nostalgia celebrating a life well lived. The first section describes his father's career as a general practitioner in Flushing, New York City—my old stomping grounds when I was a boy, and well remembered as densely urbanized in the late 1940s, but virtually a rural village during Thomas's youth. We read of horse-drawn carriages, home visits, endless concern, and little pecuniary reward. The second section treats Thomas's adult career as a doctor and medical administrator. He transmits an overwhelming impression of the fun that research can be, and he even manages to intimate that administration can be more rewarding, even more amusing, than frustrating—a proposition that I find hard to believe.
Review, 2427 words
To read the full text of this piece, please choose one of the following options:
|
If you are already a subscriber to the Review's electronic edition, please sign in: |
To subscribe to the electronic edition, please press the button below. |
To purchase access to this article for $3, please press the button below. |