Eric Kandel continues to be one of the most compelling voices at the intersection of neuroscience, psychology, and the arts. I seek out his work like a moth to a flame, and The Age of Insight only deepens that admiration. This book is as rich in complexity as it is in curiosity— an expansive, cerebral meditation on the unconscious mind, set against the intellectual renaissance of fin-de-siècle Vienna.

Kandel weaves a cultural and philosophical tapestry with ease. He moves between Klimt’s sensual symbolism and Schiele’s psychological exposure, from Kokoschka’s emotional intensity to the introspective legacy of Freud, threading them together with clinical precision and artistic wonder. It’s dense, yes, but never hollow. Every page pulses with the effort to understand what lies beneath the surface of perception: what beauty does to the brain, how memory paints its own portrait, and how art speaks to the subconscious in a language that science is only beginning to decipher.

One of the book’s most valuable contributions is its insistence that the dialogue between science and art is not merely decorative: it’s foundational. Kandel argues, in the spirit of Kant and Schopenhauer, that beauty is not passive; it’s interrogative. It demands something of the viewer. Through Kantian aesthetics, we understand that perception isn’t just sensory but interpretative and it’s filtered through layers of memory, culture, and emotion. Kandel shows how modern neuroscience is catching up with that idea, giving us tools to explore not just what we see, but how and why we see it the way we do.

Of course, Freud sits heavily in this narrative… sometimes too heavily. While Kandel acknowledges Freud’s seminal contributions to the theory of the unconscious, I couldn’t help but flinch at the reverence. Freud’s frameworks are undeniably influential, but they are also deeply flawed, particularly in their treatment of gender and sexuality. There’s room here for more critical distance. It’s not enough to cite the groundwork; the philosophical scaffolding needs to be examined, too. As a reader who’s deeply skeptical of the enduring romanticization of Freud’s more outdated and misogynistic views, I found this aspect difficult to reconcile with the otherwise progressive nature of the book.

That said, The Age of Insight remains a remarkable achievement. It’s part art history, part neurobiology, part love letter to human curiosity. It challenges the reader to think bigger about the self, about consciousness, and about how we seek to understand each other through the things we create. It doesn’t read quickly, and it doesn’t pretend to. But for those willing to sit with its intricacies, it offers a deeply rewarding journey.

For anyone who’s ever stood in front of a painting and felt something shift inside them, this book offers the beginning of an answer. And maybe more importantly, it offers the right questions. One of my absolute favorites (and one I’ll return to, pencil in hand, again and again).