How one man poured himself into poetry to prevent “the stealing of [his] personhood” by Parkinson’s. From Harvard Medicine’s 2003 bulletin, The Neurobiology of the Arts.
I sat dumbfounded as he went on to recite about a hundred lines of his verse, the tears coming to his eyes as he described, in one particularly moving section, his granddaughter at the piano, the same talented little girl whom he hadn’t been able to recall earlier during our visit. His words rose and fell with all the musicality of a Beethoven or Bach concerto, as if her inerasable presence in his mind had found a last remaining outlet. I wondered whether he had indeed once published his work, in the homeland he could no longer name, in a world that he was fast losing.
Beautiful. Read the whole piece above, excerpted from The Healing Art: A Doctor’s Black Bag of Poetry.