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If you haven’t read Flowers for Algernon, you probably have a rough idea of what it’s about, or at least have heard of it. I remember it being on my recommended reading list at school, and there was little else on there that could be classified as science fiction. Not only did Keyes win both the Hugo and Nebula in the same year for the novel, but, like Vonnegut and a very few others, he had the double-edged good fortune of transcending the genre in which he wrote, and plunging into the murky depths of “serious literature.”

By science-fiction standards, the concept of Flowers for Algernon couldn’t be simpler. Charlie Gordon, made the butt of his friends’ jokes and the shame of his family by his drastically limited IQ, is steadily enhanced through scientific experimentation into a genius, exposing him to wonders of knowledge that he could never have imagined. But the price of being the cleverest person to have lived is to finally understand his own past, to try and reconcile the cruelty he’s endured for years, and to face the possibility that, like the mouse Algernon, his boost of intelligence may only be temporary.

Flowers for Algernon wasn’t at all what I expected. It’s unpretentiously smart and often wryly funny; but what’s perhaps most surprising is that, with a concept seemingly doomed to schmaltz, Keyes manages to keep his narrative pared down and sentimental only in the most genuine of ways. The story is told entirely from Charlie’s perspective, a feat in its own right given the stylistic range required to represent the journey from idiot savant to frustrated genius. But, even with two love stories and the handling of subjects like mental disability and animal rights, Keyes maintains an emotional clarity that never becomes maudlin. We’re dragged through every stage of Charlie’s mental rise and fall, we see him at his best and, perhaps more often, at his worst, and reading the final chapters is like watching a friend slide into senility. That’s about as fun as it sounds, but it also has the cathartic kick that only great writing can provide.

Flowers has dated slightly, particularly in regards to some of the underlying psychology and attitudes, but it really is pretty timeless in most respects. Stripped down, it’s a straight-forward tale of the desire for knowledge, and its price. Don’t be put off by the science-fiction label, or the literature tag either–it belongs equally well to both and escapes the common failings of either. And if you were forced to read it at school then consider revisiting it from a new perspective. It’s a brave, wise and understated novel that absolutely deserves its classic status.

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