Starting today, The Daily Dog-Ear will appear weekdays on The 6th Floor. It will be a brief post and link from someone at the magazine about something excellent on the Internet — it won't always be a lengthy read, although it could be, because, naturally, we like things like that. But we also like quirky photographs, thoughtful radio interviews and collections of funny animated GIFs. The point is just to direct your attention to things we find notable, interesting, surprising, provocative or otherwise dog-ear-able.
Gary Taubes is a writer I've worked with a few times over the years, including his 2002 cover article for this magazine called "What If It's All Been a Big Fat Lie?" and he is also my personal science guru. Whenever I read something about science that I doubt or don't understand, I e-mail him with questions, and he unfailingly responds, sometimes at impressive length, with clear, incisive analyses of whatever I've asked about. At this point, I have enough of these e-mails for a book.
Recently I asked Gary for the best book he has ever read on dementia. His recommendation was "Another Name for Madness," by Marion Roach, which he said "probably did as much as any single book/article to get Alzheimer's noticed and focus medical and research attention on it."
As it happens, that book started as an article with the same title that ran in this magazine in 1983. The author was then a news assistant at The Times, and she wrote a harrowing, loving portrait of her mother, Allene, who suffered from Alzheimer's, a disease that few people knew much about:
My mother, a college graduate who used to say television "rots the mind," now spends most of her days watching it — literally watching, for she rarely turns on the sound — and smoking cigarettes. When I visit her on Sundays now, I always find her watching one of those disco dance shows. She stares at it and smokes. Until last fall, she had gone 13 years without a cigarette. She cannot remember how much she smokes — and so, she smokes about four and a half packs a day. It is one of the few things she still remembers how to do.
My mother is 54 years old. She has been a widow for almost five years. Soon, within several years, her brain will forget not only what day it is but how to perform what for most people are automatic functions: how to eat, how to walk — in short, how to live.
Marion's book was published in 1985. Her mother died in 1992.
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