For a depressive, reading about depression is a double-edged experience. One enters into a book hoping to find stories similar to his own but, significantly, with happy endings—and maybe even a map of the road it takes to get there. Unfortunately, certain books, once entered, reveal to the reader rooms that previously he had never even suspected existed, alerting him to the possibility that his life, which he had heretofore thought of as simply a cottage of misery, may actually be a mansion of endless horrors. It’s good advice, in any autodidactic investigation of the disease, to tread lightly.
That said, there are numerous books on the (continually growing) subject of depression that are worth reading despite the inherent risks. It is worth noting, too, that everyone who suffers from depression does so differently, and with different histories, so that a book that may help one sufferer may prove to be useless (or, worse, damaging) to another. It pays to be discerning in your quest to understand what’s happening to you.
The five books listed here are, in their own individual ways, both comprehensive enough and written with enough intelligence to avoid, for the most part, the above-mentioned pitfalls. And unlike too many other books on the market, they are engaging enough to be read by the unafflicted as well.
Darkness Visible: A Memoir of Madness, by William Styron
To this day the cornerstone of modern literary endeavors addressing the subject of depression, Styron’s lyrical prose—even in describing the indescribably bleak—eloquently captures his very personal encounter with his demons. It’s a slim volume, avoiding unnecessarily oblique references to his illness in favor of insightful, albeit sometimes relentlessly painful, descriptions of an experience that all too often escapes adequate scrutiny. Because of its brief length and graceful, attractive prose, it’s also a near-perfect introduction to the disease for those whose brush with depression is not through themselves but through their loved ones.
Undercurrents: A Life Beneath the Surface, by Martha Manning
Another excellent personal memoir, this time from the perspective of a woman whose roles as wife, mother and clinical psychologist are all eclipsed by a severe mental breakdown. Like Styron, Manning must eventually resort to hospitalization; unlike Styron—and this is where the book sets itself apart from the vast majority of similar publications—Manning undergoes a series of ECT (electroconvulsive therapy) treatments. Peppered with relevant and poignant snatches of poetry and prayer, Undercurrents seeks to pass along the wisdom gained from one person’s struggle with melancholia. But underneath, one can sense the author hoping to demystify the widely feared procedure that saved her life.
The Noonday Demon: An Atlas of Depression, by Andrew Solomon
In this impressive work, Solomon has undertaken the Herculean task of pulling together almost everything known about the subject of depression, from chemically descriptive accounts of past and present drug treatments, to the incomparably long history of the disease and on through causes, social attitudes and an impressively researched chapter on its insidious grip on the poor of the world. Daunting though this may sound (and the book, including appendices, runs to an imposing 571 pages), Solomon’s novelistic training lends to the pages a highly readable intellectual vigor and a personal flair that makes the book hard to put down. But be warned: As enthralling as it can be, this is just the type of reading that can turn mental molehills into psychotic mountains if one does not keep a safe distance from some of the subjects Solomon covers.
Where the Roots Reach for Water: A Personal and Natural History of Melancholia, by Jeffery Smith
Smith covers some of the same ground as Solomon, but comes to very different conclusions. One of the most urgent dilemmas faced by many depressives is whether or not to take drugs; and if they are taken, what happens to your head, to your heart and to your soul in the process? This question haunts Smith throughout the book, and although he tried his fair share of the recommended pills and accompanying therapies, he ultimately finds his way out of the woods on his own. From this safe distance he sees his recovery fairly clearly, and he describes the harrowing journey with sensitivity and candor.
But one can’t shake the feeling that very familiar ground is being covered here: Almost all accounts of depressive encounters eventually come full circle, ending with a battle-weary but wiser, and certainly mentally healthier, author signing off in relative peace. Which, of course, is what most readers are looking for. The vast majority of any book on this subject is filled with page after page of descriptions of impossible misery and human suffering. Who wouldn’t want at some point emerge from that dark hole?
Still, the reader should take care not to assume that any particular writer has the one and only answer to depression. And although Smith conscientiously avoids condemning medication outright, it would be wise to combine this book with at least one other book that puts forth a different view.
The Nature of Melancholy: From Aristotle to Kristeva, edited by Jennifer Radden
Editor Jennifer Radden has put together a collection of writings that covers centuries of observations on the malady, from Aristotle’s thoughts on the disease of “black bile” (and its relationship to genius) on through Saint Teresa, Goethe, Kant, Keats and Baudelaire, among others. It is a blessed relief to ponder the poetic musings of some of history’s keenest intellects, as opposed to confronting, relentlessly, the accounts of modern-day stigmas and social reprobations found (justifiably) in other books. But while the selections contained herein are illuminating, the book falls short. Still, it’s an engaging read, and most importantly, it’s mollifying to know that others—a great many others and many great others—have succumbed to, and survived, the grip of this all-too-common disease.
