Oliver Sacks is going to die, and that makes us (and him, of course) the unlucky ones. In February I wrote with sadness about Sacks’ announcment that he had terminal cancer, an announcment that was poignant and as full of humanity as we’ve come to expect from the man. The guy was sui generis—plagues by his own mental and physical problems, which he wrote about with candor, but filled with empathy for the badly afflicted people he encountered as a neurologist. He was, too, a superb writer and storyteller: maybe not such much a scientist as a messenger of science. But whatever you call him, you can’t dislike him, and I think we’ll all miss him when, as he predicts, he’ll be gone in a few months.
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