In this “nonfiction novel”, Labatut writes about the lives and discoveries of scientists such as Haber, Grothendieck, Heisenberg, Schrödinger, indulging in the most morbid details of their personal experiences, as well as on the often dramatic consequences of their research. 

His historical accounts regularly blur the line between fiction and nonfiction: at times he strives to be informative, educating the reader on scientific principles they may or may not be familiar with. Other times, however, he fills the large, inevitable gaps in historical evidence with the raciest and most sensationalistic interpretations.

Now, there is nothing wrong in mixing facts and imagination, or even in leaning a bit on the pulpy side to keep things entertaining – that is, as long as your intentions are clear, which I found not to always be the case with this book. Indeed, one may be misled to believe this is a collection of essays, albeit entertainingly written – well, at least until they find themselves deep into some piece of fanfiction about the sexual fantasies of famous scientists.

What irked me the most, however, was the lesson that these heavily romanticised biographies try to impart: that is to say, that genius and madness are two faces of the same coin; that scientific discoveries aren’t the result of hard work, but the byproduct of a fever dream; and that knowledge isn’t just a potentially dangerous tool, but something inherently maddening (a concept that I’d expect from Lovecraft, not from some piece of infotainment).

Also, once established that Schrödinger had some deeply concerning behaviour, do we really need to indulge so much on the “charm” of frail teenage girls? Because it feels more exploitative than unsparing.

All that said, I can’t deny Labatut has an engaging storytelling voice, and that at least at times I reveled in his riveting overflow of anecdotes. It’s an enjoyable read, but I have issues with its message.