Pulitzer Prize-winning music critic recounts what it was like to grow up with undiagnosed Asperger's

From The New York Times:

When Tim Page was a teenager, he thought of Howard Hughes, Glenn Gould, Bobby Fischer and J. D. Salinger as role models. He sensed that he too might be famous someday, but he feared that he would be strangely alienated and alone.

The first prediction came true, and then some: Mr. Page won a Pulitzer Prize for his music criticism at The Washington Post (he was also a critic at The New York Times). He has written such a superbly incisive biography of the once-forgotten novelist Dawn Powell that she is now well remembered, and edited volumes of Powell’s diaries and letters. Now, in his mid-50s, he has written an improbably lovely memoir about the loneliness that has made him feel throughout his life that he is “not quite a mammal.”

“In the years since the phrase became a cliché, I have received any number of compliments for my supposed ability to ‘think outside the box,’ ” Mr. Page writes in “Parallel Play” (an expanded version of material published in The New Yorker). But for him thinking inside the box is at best a mechanical exercise based on mimicry; at worst it’s an impossibility.

In fascinatingly precise detail and often to pricelessly funny effect, he describes ways in which his efforts to feign normalcy have backfired. Recalling an adolescent clinch with a young woman who asked if he’d still care about her the next day, he says he pondered the question, then told her truthfully that he had no idea. “Wrong answer,” he wryly recalls.

When he was 45, Mr. Page learned that he had the autistic disorder called Asperger’s syndrome. He was relieved to know that his condition was quantifiable and that others share the same general symptoms. But he was also much too smart and self-aware to feel true kinship with other Aspies, as he calls them.

“We are not always natural companions,” he writes. “If, say, you introduce an Aspie devotee of antique piano recordings to one whose passion is vacuum cleaners, chances are that the meeting will result in two uncomprehending and increasingly agitated monologues.”

As for his own social skills, he has been married twice and is the father of three sons. Yet he still writes that “it would be easier for me to improvise an epic poem before a sellout crowd at Madison Square Garden than to approach an attractive stranger across the room and strike up a conversation.” About his professional abilities, he acknowledges that he was lucky to find work like teaching and writing music criticism. He would have fared horribly with a job in sales.

Mr. Page’s devotion to music first manifested itself when he was very young. He named a stuffed animal after the tenor and film actor Mario Lanza. (Among this book’s many pleasures are Mr. Page’s wildly eclectic tastes and his fondness for the endearingly second rate.)

He loved records. When given an elementary school assignment to “write about something we had at home,” he reeled off from memory the precise selections, composers, singers and dates of each band on an opera anthology ranging from 1909 to 1932. He also loved relics of bygone time, ingested horehound drops as snack food and was using the world “talkie” about movies in 1965.

Among Mr. Page’s extremely colorful examples of his obsessive, controlling boyhood behavior is his having gotten hold of — and then re-edited, following a scene-by-scene description of the original from a library book — an eight-millimeter print of the 12-minute silent film “The Great Train Robbery” because he knew that a distributor had tampered with the original. And there’s more: in 1967 he was directing his own films and became the subject of a prizewinning documentary called “A Day With Timmy Page.” Mr. Page’s wing-nut film fanaticism led him to discover Bob Dylan’s “Bringing It All Back Home” not for the obvious reasons but because Louella Parsons’s biography of Jean Harlow appears amid the coffee-table clutter on the album’s cover.

With seemingly effortless grace this book moves back and forth between Mr. Page’s very private idiosyncrasies and those of the wider culture in which he came of age. The fear and rigid conventionality of the 1950s were relatively easy for him. The ’60s took more effort, but he worked hard to adapt. He was sufficiently well assimilated to go with the flow, grow long hair and get a job in a record store, “where I became the very model of the snide know-it-all counterperson we have all met and loathed.”

“Parallel Play” is illustrated by a series of expertly chosen photos of the author that amount to a kind of time-lapse photography: from a little boy making an open-mouthed goldfish grimace (“Try as I might, I couldn’t remember how to smile”) to a beret-wearing, contented-looking, broadly smiling professor. He is on a park bench in Baltimore. Thanks to the candid, companionable voice of his memoir, the implied invitation to sit down and discuss, oh, maybe the later Beach Boys records (which he marvelously describes as “vaporous, ethereal, elaborately ornamented musical clockworks, distinguished by a blossoming tenderness and sheer sonic splendor”) is all but irresistible.

But there is also a strain of mournfulness running through this book. It’s not about Asperger’s, but it is intensified by the peculiar nature of Mr. Page’s Asperger-governed perceptions. Tirelessly logical, sometimes agonizingly so, he lives life in an extra dimension, with a sense of time that irrevocably links past and present, living and dead, ardent love affairs and broken ones.

The people who left him — and it seems to have happened a lot — are still with him. The schoolmate who died in his teens has become, in Mr. Page’s imagination, his aging contemporary. The music heard at a long-ago party is still playing. And the hardest job of Mr. Page’s life, as “Parallel Play” conveys even in its brightest moments, has been to struggle for a way to make peace with it all.