The Novel Cure: From Abandonment to Zestlessness: 751 Books to Cure What Ails You (6 page)

All of which, perhaps, explains why Shandy’s/Sterne’s prose is so unruly—a page left blank for readers to draw their own version of Widow Wadman, the paramour of Uncle Toby; asterisks where the reader is invited to imagine what a character is thinking; and an entirely black page that supposedly “mourns” the loss of Parson Yorick. There are even squiggly loops indicating the shape of the narrative digressions themselves.

One cannot help but come under the spell. “Digressions, incontestably, are the sunshine. They are the life, the soul, of reading!” says Tristram at the start of the novel. We wholeheartedly agree. Interrupt the reading of this book by opening
Tristram Shandy
. Go on, just for a chapter. Although after a few pages, perhaps, it’ll be time for a cup of tea. And then a spontaneous excursion might take your fancy. You might forget you were reading this book in the first place. (That’s okay; you can come back to it in the middle of some other task some other day.) A digression a day keeps the doctor away—and so will
Tristram Shandy
.

See also:
Control freak, being a
•
Give up halfway through, refusal to
•
Humorlessness
•
Organized, being too
•
Reverence of books, excessive
•
Single-mindedness

The Old Man and the Sea

ERNEST HEMINGWAY

B
ecause even after eighty-four consecutive days of going out in his boat without catching a single fish, the old man is cheerful and undefeated. And even when the other fishermen laugh at him, he is not angry. And even though he now has to fish alone—because the boy who has been
with him since he was five, and whom he loves, and who loves him, has been forced by his family to try his luck with another boat—he holds no grudge in his heart. And because on the eighty-fifth day he goes out again, full of hope.

And even though, when he does hook a big fish—the biggest fish that he or anyone else has ever caught—it pulls on his line so fiercely that the skin on his hand is torn, he still lets the fish pull him farther out. And though he wishes to God that the boy were with him, he is grateful that at least he has the porpoises that play and joke around his boat. And even when it’s been a day and a night and another day stretches ahead, and it’s only him and the fish and there’s no one to help, still he keeps his head. And even when he has been pushed further than he has ever been pushed in his life, and he begins to feel the edge of despair, he talks himself around, because he must think of what he has, and not what he does not have, and of what he can do with what there is. And though his hand becomes so stiff it is useless, and though he is hungry and thirsty and blinded by the sun, he still thinks of the lions he once saw on the beach in Africa, like some sort of heavenly vision. Because he knows that there is nothing greater, or more beautiful, or more noble than this fish that tugs him ever on. And even when it is dead, and the sharks come to feast—first one, then half a dozen—and the man loses his harpoon and then his knife in his attempts to fend them off; and even when he has ripped out the keel of his boat to use as a club; and even though he fails to save the flesh of the fish, and the ordeal leaves him so tired and weak he is nearly lost himself; and even though when he finally makes it to shore all that is left of the fish is a skeleton, he accepts what has happened, and is not broken, nor angry, but goes, rather gratefully, to bed.

Because by immersing yourself in the simple, calming prose of this story, you too will rise above your emotions. You will join the old man in his boat, witness firsthand his love for the boy, for the sea, for the fish, and allow it to fill you with peace and a noble acceptance of what is, leaving no space for what was or what you would like to be. Sometimes we all go out too far, but it doesn’t mean we can’t come back. And just as the old man is made happy by his vision of lions on a beach, you too can have your vision—perhaps of the old man and the way he talks himself around. And after you have read it, you will keep this novel on your shelf, somewhere you will see it whenever you feel angry. And you’ll remember the old man, the sea, the fish, and you’ll be calm.

See also:
Rage
•
Road rage
•
Turmoil
•
Vengeance, seeking
•
Violence, fear of

Siddhartha

HERMANN HESSE

A
s anyone who has stood at the top of a cliff will tell you, alongside the fear of falling to your death is an equally strong and entirely conflicting emotion: the urge to jump. The knowledge that nothing is stopping you from making that leap, the leap into possibility—the realization that you have absolute freedom of will, infinite power to create and to destroy—fills you with horror and dread. It is this horror, according to Soren Kierkegaard, that lies at the root of existential angst.

If you are unlucky enough to have been struck with this debilitating affliction, you will be in urgent need of spiritual refreshment. You need to pare back the possibilities, to renounce the world, and join, at least for a while, the ascetics. You need
Siddhartha
.

Siddhartha, the young son of a fictional Brahmin in ancient India, brings joy and bliss to everyone—except himself. Leading a seemingly idyllic existence surrounded by a family who loves him, he appears destined for great things. But despite his material and spiritual wealth, young Siddhartha feels that something is missing.

And so, as young men in ancient India were wont to do, he goes on a spiritual quest. First he joins the Samana, a band of self-flagellating ascetics who deny the flesh and seek enlightenment through renunciation. Fully flagellated but still discontented, he encounters Gotama, the Buddha, who teaches him the eightfold path that illuminates the way to the end of suffering. Not content with this knowledge alone, and wanting to reach his goal through his own understanding, he meets Vasudeva, a ferryman with an astonishing inner light, who seems content with his simple life. But this, too, fails to satisfy. Even after living a sensual and happy life for many years with the beautiful Kamala, still something is missing for Siddhartha. For a while he contemplates death by drowning. But then he remembers the astoundingly happy ferryman, Vasudeva, and learns that he must study the river.

Here he finds revelations to last a lifetime—including the true cycle of life and death, and what it is to be part of a timeless unity. And from that day on he radiates transcendent understanding, self-knowledge, and
enlightenment. From all over the world, people come to him to seek wisdom and peace. People like you.

See also:
Anxiety
•
Despair
•
Dread, nameless
•
Pointlessness

See:
Adolescence
•
Teens, being in your

See:
Eating disorder

The Accidental Tourist

ANNE TYLER

•   •   •

We Have Always Lived in the Castle

SHIRLEY JACKSON

B
eing not the most sociable person in the world doesn’t have to mean you’re a sad excuse for a human being. Greta Garbo—no slouch, she—famously got an Oscar nomination for declaring “I want to be alone” (three times) in the movie
Grand Hotel
.

Since novelists spend days, weeks, months, and even years inside their own invented worlds, it’s not surprising that many of them focus on characters who aren’t exactly clubbable. One of the best novels about loners is Anne Tyler’s
The Accidental Tourist
, whose introverted lead character, Macon Leary, wants mostly to be left in peace. “It’s nice to be so unconnected,” he tells his sister, Rose, when his wife leaves him, fed up with his “little routines and rituals, depressing habits, day after day.” Macon likes his life when it’s free of attachments. “I wish things could stay that way a while,” he tells Rose. Macon writes travel guides for businesspeople who don’t like traveling and who, as he does, like to “pretend they had never left home.” Macon carries this mind-set to such an extreme that he envies his older brother, Charles, when Charles gets stuck in the pantry of the family home, where Macon’s grown-up siblings still live. “Macon imagined how safe the pantry must feel, with Rose’s jams lined up
in alphabetical order and the black dial telephone, so ancient that the number on its face was still the old Tuxedo exchange. What he wouldn’t give to be there!”