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A Note of Madness
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Shortlisted for the Branford Boase Book Award 2007 also shortlisted for the Times Educational Supplement NASEN book award
'A Note of Madness is much more than a book about depression: it's about brilliance, fear, love and living. That is its achievement, and what makes it a hearteningly good read.' The Guardian
Out now in bookshops or order online from:
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'The main strength of this superbly written novel is the realistic characterisation... As Flynn slips over the fine line that separates eccentricity from madness you feel you're going mad yourself... but it is not a depressing read. Far from it, it's inspiring and gripping.' Julia Jarman
'It
pushes the boundaries further than even the work of Melvin Burgess...
The author has managed to capture the perspective of a young person
suffering from manic-depression in much the same way as Haddon found
the voice of the Asperger's Syndrome/savant in The Curious Incident of
the Dog in the Night-time.' Gill James
'The themes of music and talent permeate this remarkable novel... An amazingly sensitive treatment of the mental and emotional anguish which accompanies this disorder...' Bookfest
'A gripping, brilliant, beautifully-written debut novel which brilliantly evokes the luminous highs and nightmare lows of a talented teenager with bipolar disorder.' Annie Dalton
'An intense and extremely involving account of a young man's struggle with bipolar disorder. Written with compassion and perception, this is a moving, impressive debut.' The Bookseller
Absolutely terrific... unbearable to put down.' Phil Earle
'A compulsively readable story... persuasive and admirable.' Jan Mark
'A convincingly complex and unsettling portrayal of a talented young man's fight with depression. Suzuma's compassion for her struggling hero makes for a genuinely moving read.' Keith Gray
'Mental health issues, tackled here with insight and integrity, do concern teenagers a lot even when their own mood swings remain within the 'normal range'. A book from the real world.' The Bookseller
'A passionately emotive novel, full of anguish and turmoil for Flynn,
who finds out he is suffering from manic depression... Suzuma’s uncompromising writing conveys the
devastating and destructive nature of such an illness, which is shown
through Flynn’s convincing personal battle.' Leicestershire County Council
'Tabitha Suzuma has used the wonderfully rich character of Flynn to
tell a moving account of young people and the effect of mental illness
on their lives.' Claire Russell, Wangaratta High School
'Just read your awesome book. It felt like a look into my future. Thanks a lot for writing the book, seems like it's just for me. I had a great time with it. You've written a sequel, hooray! I loved the characters and the book went by too fast, as good ones often do.' Matthew, 17
'I enjoyed every minute I spent reading it. It was hard to put it down at times, it was such a rollercoaster of emotion. I laughed and cried along with Flynn, and it felt like I was right there in the midst of the story. Your characters are so vivid, so real, and the storyline something I really could sympathise with, almost with the feeling of "I've been there, felt like that." ' Martine, 25
Read the full reviews | Synopsis
Life
as a student is good for Flynn. As one of the top pianists at the Royal
College of Music, he is put forward for a big concert, the opportunity
of a lifetime. But beneath the surface, things are changing. On a good
day he feels full of energy and life, but on a bad day being alive is
worse than being dead. Sometimes he wants to compose and practise all
night, at other times he can't even get out of bed. His flatmate Harry
tries to understand but is increasingly confused by Flynn's erratic
mood swings. His friend Jennah tries to help, but Flynn finds it
difficult to be around her - she evokes in him feelings that he can't
accept. With the pressure of the forthcoming concert and the growing
concern of his family and friends, emotions come to a head. Sometimes
things have to get worse before they can get better.
It was impossible to say how it had all begun. Shoulders
pressed against the back of a hard chair, wintry sunlight streaking
through steel blinds across a grey carpet, gazing at the sharp-cheeked
woman at the cluttered desk, there was nothing to say. How did any
madness begin? It could either creep up on you, like a slow,
degenerative disease, or there could be a sudden, dramatic impact, like
slamming into a brick wall and being told you were clinically insane.
And how did you know when the impact actually hit? You could be walking
around, getting on with life as normal one minute, and then find
yourself on a window ledge four stories up the next. Or the line
between what was commonly perceived as normal and abnormal behaviour
would gradually begin to blur until you found yourself, barely
perceptively, moving towards the wrong side. Some people seemed to
manage to live their whole lives just on the edge of that line, never
actually crossing it. That line - always close but never enough to
touch, never consciously present, yet for ever lurking somewhere in the
subconscious, making itself known. Whereas others somehow drifted over,
never any deliberate stepping onto it or over it, but suddenly it just
seemed to disappear, leaving nothing but a cluttered office, here in
the hospital, and a bedroom like a cell to which one didn’t have the
key. The woman with the unmemorable name levelled her steady gaze,
pen poised. ‘Let’s start with your childhood. What was life like when
you were growing up?’
A
look at her. Her gaze unfaltering. But there really wasn’t much to say.
A childhood that had been normal, if that meant anything any more – no
traumas, no abuse, she wasn’t going to find anything of interest there.
Unlike the other patients, there was no reason for being here. Physical
war-scars like burns and cuts or weird, paranoid behaviour stemming
from some terrible incident were all around them. But there was nothing
to talk about – nothing that was going to lead them any closer to
finding out what was wrong, if indeed anything was wrong. Life had been
normal and then it wasn’t any more and that was all there was to say
about it. No startling day awaking with madness, nor madness cunningly
creeping up. It was just that somehow, sometime, somewhere down the
road, things had changed, and why or when that had happened was
impossible to tell.
Ten
years was a long time. He had just been a student, back then. No real
pressures, no real responsibility, no real reason to go off the rails.
His mind might drift briefly back over a dozen or more fragmented
shards but it wasn’t able to fit them together, as with pieces of a
jigsaw, to form a coherent picture. A professor at a desk, running over
muddy grass, the chipped beech piano in the living room, you’re
breathing too quickly. Mum’s greying hair, notes flowing like torrents,
hands unable to keep up, you’re playing too fast. Smoking on a picnic
bench, manuscript scrawls on a grubby floor, feet thudding on a
deserted path, stop running for goodness’ sake. A grey university
building, Rachmaninov’s Third, Jennah’s green eyes, a gilded concert
hall. It didn’t really make any sense. So he looked at the psychiatrist and smiled.
© Tabitha Suzuma
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