by Kelly Pickerill
Diane Ackerman has written a book about the brain; she’s written a book about the holocaust and one about gardening. Her writing is always vibrant and intimate, but with her latest book, she has explored the territory of her own nightmare: her husband’s stroke which left him unable to communicate, and its aftermath of rehabilitation.
Ackerman is married to British novelist Paul West. Together they have written nearly seventy-five books. West’s are, according to Ackerman, characterized by “flamboyant and allusive” phrases. He is a playful wordsmith, one who will say a 
word simply to hear the sound of it, just to relish the feel of it in his mouth. He makes up many words too, hyphenating, abbreviating, and then mashing the bits back together to create a nuance of meaning. He enjoys surprising his wife with new phrases to describe her, new ways to show his adoration.
One Hundred Names for Love is the story of Ackerman’s struggle – watching her husband, who got so much joy out of language, struggle to communicate, able to let out only a single, frustrating syllable, “mem,” she wrestles with her own knowledge of the way our minds work, knowledge that leaves her disappointingly void of hope. Her empathy for West’s situation, however, eventually leads to her discovery of a breakthrough.
I don’t know what the breakthrough is yet; I’m only in chapter four. But I do know one comes, because in the first few chapters, when describing West’s stroke and the first days afterward, she relates West’s experience from his perspective, “as he later told her.”
As I read, I’m discovering that Ackerman is just as much of a wordsmith as her husband. She uses common images in surprising ways, employing all of the guns in her arsenal: her naturalist sensibilities, her sophisticated understanding of human behavior, and her intimate connection with her subject.
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