There are 40 reviews of Invisible Driving on Amazon.com, with an average 5 Star rating.  It's also been reviewed on many national and international Bipolar websites (links available at http://www.invisibledriving.com.)  Industry gurus Dr. E. Fuller Torrey and Dr. Jim Phelps have given it rave reviews.  In general, it is evaluated specifically as a memoir of manic depression, with an eye to how it can help those interested in learning more about the illness.  The following is, I believe, the definitive Invisible Driving review.  Not merely because it is brilliant and brilliantly written, but because it describes the totality of the book as a work of literature.  I hope you enjoy it.  It was written by London-based author, editor, and critic Justina Jase and appeared first on her blog, then on Amazon.uk.

The relationship between genius, artistic creativity, and mania has been studied at length, and it’s a deep vein. But to say that mania is a state of pure creativity is an oversimplification; rather like saying an erupting volcano is a good source of energy. There is truth to the statement, but who among us can control a volcano? When I was writing Invisible Driving, my memoir of manic depression (http://www.invisibledriving.com) (Amazon.com) I had to reconstruct my manic episodes with great care. In doing so, two things became obvious. The first was that my creative energies were at their highest, I existed in a state of constant, unfettered creativity. The other was that creativity was far beyond my grasp, it was controlling me, in a sense, my new persona was the greatest single product of my uncontrolled creativity – I was a fabulous fiction. In hindsight I understood that, while the sensation of unbridled creativity was seductive, it could never qualify as art, since art is the result of a careful balance between creativity and control. In mania, there was no control.

Of all the intangibles inherent in mania, the one I knew would be most challenging to convey was the sense of slipping into an alternate reality, a parallel universe. My city was the same; I looked the same, but absolutely everything was essentially changed. This was a world with different rules, entirely different emotions, and a foreign approach to life itself. I chewed through experience like a hungry dog. If ever there were a case of “perception being reality,” this was it. The following is excerpted from the chapter of Invisible Driving called “Steps.” Invisible Driving by Alistair McHarg is available from Amazon.com. http//www.invisibledriving.com)

Writing a memoir, if you do it properly, is not a simple catalog of events. When I began Invisible Driving, my memoir of manic depression - http://www.invisibledriving.com - I knew it would be like following a piece of string that led inevitably into the darkest regions of my soul. Recreating mania through language was a technical challenge, but getting on a first-name basis with the demons that sparked my mad behavior was an emotional challenge. In my daily life I was reserved; in mania I was a runaway chain saw. I thought of myself as endlessly charming and funny, I was in fact boiling with furious rage. People in the full throes of mania are capable of tremendous, irrational violence. - A word to the wise. Don’t step on Superman’s cape, don’t spit into the wind, and don’t f*uck with a guy who’s manic. This chapter is called, “The Righteous Rage That Drives Men Into Battle.”

A Manic episode can elevate instantly. One night I was washing the china, the next night I was China. For months after I was desperately racing. Going nowhere. Going off. My mind glowed like a rocket, wildly churning out ideas. The ideas were totally unconnected, or, at best, hinged on a sliver of wordplay. At first this made me feel powerful, it’s unbelievably entertaining. After a while, it was like having a demented television set in my brain that I couldn’t turn off.

Okay. Ready? Good. Let’s get to it. Time to drop the needle in the tracks and separate the soul from the wax. Decided on a trip to D.C. do you see? Hang around with friends, formulate a plan, check in with two kittens I was grooming. Made calls, set dates, packed my papers up, blueprints for the life I was designing, rocket Metroliner down the northeast corridor to the bacon of industrial democracy. Straight to the tail of the train for a joint, watched the rails whip away, like a pair of shiny serpents parallel. Over, I thought, it was over, and overrated by me, the life I wasn’t living was over, glossy Metroliner, limos would be next. Everything awaited my arrival. Sat alone, train mostly empty, or partly full, depending on perspective, as is the case with everything, gazed through glass at the green scenic smear, felt the electricity percolate my blood, girl came by, said it was her seat, said she’d only gone to get a soda. Automatic gentleman apologies. Second thoughts, minute thoughts, of hours spent together in secluded, romantic b and b’s. Kiss, don’t telephone, don’t television. Asked her could I stay and she said, wood eye? Struck dumb stunned and amazed. Beauty so exquisite that it pained me, looks that were the fortune of a noble family, inherited like chairs by Duncan Phyfe. Blonde hair, blue eyes, strong cheekbones, thin nose, pouty lips, something almost tough in her persona. The body couldn’t ever be as perfect as her face, but it was, especially the legs. Probably in her thirties, but dressed for an exclusive boarding school, crisp white blouse, suspenders, culottes, black watch plaid. Central casting fantasy, magic realized. How could I survive a life where dreaming made it so? The mettle I was made of was tested by her legs, I couldn’t keep my eyes off of them.

Everything is, the way it is, for a reason. Or, it isn’t. Or both. Or neither. It’s so hard to tell. But I can tell you. I can tell you a mile away. I can tell you’re a mile away by the Luke in your eyes. Matthew. Mark. John upstairs on your left. A marvelous hat was timed by all. All’s well that’s oiled well. If you think the party is dull, circulate, if you think it’s fun, circle seven. Every won played Counts. Except those who played Contessas. The Count’s divorce was uncontessad. At the auction she was chomping at the bid. The subway in London is the fellow peon tube. Tube B or not Tube B? I once met a Jewish gangster exiled in the islands, his name was Bermuda Schwartz. European? No, it’s just ice in my pocket. Don’t step in the poodles. She was only a stableman’s daughter, but all the horsemen knew her. Then there was the performance artist who said, “I don’t know much about art, but I know what I’m like.” Power corrupts, absolute power corrupts Albert Finney. Remember that bastard Lester Maddox? He was a racist, and a brutal hatemonger. He was the Lester of two evils. Stop, I’m killing me! Want a drink? No thanks, I’m not drinking any more. Of course, I’m not drinking any less, either.

These are glory days for Invisible Driving. I’ve discovered the core position, The Empty Car. While performing The Empty Car I’m in the driver’s seat with feet on pedals in the normal arrangement but all of me above waist level is bent over, resting on the passenger’s seat. I have the mirrors set so that I can still see perfectly well but to all observers the car is unoccupied. It’s incredibly funny. We’re talking radnopolis funny. Impossible for me to pull this maneuver without cracking up into a squizzling, snerchified hysterical laughter. I laugh with a nervous, giddy delight at the sheer absurdity of it. I laugh with a childish delight at the outrageousness of it. I laugh with an anxious excitement, agitated by the risk. But I laugh most uncontrollably as I imagine the reactions of the passengers in the cars who see this apparition. The ghost car.