This book was compelling and left me wishing that I could spend a day inside Margo Jefferson's brain. It made me wish that I was smarter and could even begin to have the complexity of thought that is so apparent throughout "Constructing a Nervous System: A Memoir". As the New York Times review says, "If Margo Jefferson had gone into another profession — cabinetmaking, let’s say — she’d be the type to draw and redraw plans for a cabinet, build and tinker with the cabinet, stand back to look at the cabinet from every angle, probe the purpose of woodworking, take a break to go examine 2,000 other cabinets, then disassemble her own product and start from scratch with alternative tools, creating an object that no longer resembled a cabinet but performed all the functions of one in startling ways.
Jefferson is a Pulitzer Prize-winning critic, not a cabinetmaker (that I know of), but this is the spirit in which her second memoir, “Constructing a Nervous System,” proceeds. Her experiment is instantly effective."
and then this, "In “Negroland,” Jefferson asked: “What has made and maimed me?” Her new book begins by cross-examining what that “me” consists of, posing the question of how to author a memoir when you chafe against the concept of authority. Two solutions come to mind. One, go mad. Two, redraw the boundaries of the genre. Jefferson selects Option 2, and the book’s title is a sly description of the project, with “nervous system” referring not to anatomical fibers and cells but to the materials — “chosen, imposed, inherited, made up” — that jumble together into an identity. And that may, with skill, be coaxed into a narrative. A quick flip through the pages might set off alarm bells for those fearful of italics, bold type, capital letters, dictionary definitions and chunky quotations. But this is a book for deep submergence, not quick flipping. This is appointment reading. Clear the schedule and commit.
Issuing commands like the above is one of Jefferson’s techniques. “Read on,” she orders at one point. At another, discussing Bud Powell, she insists: “Don’t pity him.” She writes in the first and second person — and also, because why not, in the voice of Bing Crosby. She borrows the conceit of a forensic procedural to investigate Willa Cather’s work. There are letters, calls to action, song lyrics, aphorisms, annotations, unearthed journal entries, a theory of minstrelsy. There are excerpts from Charlotte Brontë, Katherine Mansfield, Ida B. Wells, Czeslaw Milosz; allusions to Beckett, Robert Louis Stevenson and Dante.
It takes a strong sensibility to make all of this jump-cutting not only coherent but hypnotic. Jefferson’s sensibility is one of exquisitely personal engagement with art. Yes, part of the book is a hypertextual rumination on the nature of memoir, and there is a dusting of traditional autobiography — she writes about her father’s depression, her teaching career, a love affair — but in the dance between autobiographer and critic, the critic is leading."