The Noonday Demon: An Atlas of Depression
Greetings Chris,
PRINT
DISCUSS
E-MAIL
RSS
RECOMMEND...
Facebook
MySpace
Mixx
Digg
Reddit
del.icio.us
Furl
Ma.gnolia
Sphere
StumbleUponThanks once again for an admirable summary and appraisal of the book. "Once again" refers to the similar service you did a few weeks ago, on what in retrospect seems quite a similar book: Louis Menand's Metaphysical Club. The similarity to Noonday Demon is that both are big, thick works; both drip with erudition (academic in Menand's case, more reportorial with Solomon); both are carefully written line by line but proceed in meandering rather than relentlessly linear fashion. And both are worth the journey.
I thought this book was a little more sprawling than you apparently do, especially the first half. I actually read Anatomy of Melancholy years ago, when I imagined I had all the time in the world to plow through obscure tomelike classics, and I think it is a direct precursor to this book. I agree with you about some of the preening sides of himself Andrew Solomon seems to reveal. This may seem a totally bizarre complaint to make. After all, he matter of factly describes what would ordinarily be the most humiliating and terrible details as part of the portrait of his illness. Yet still, as you say, he can sound vain or precious about certain talents and refinements.
Nonetheless, this is a memorable, gripping book. I expect it to be a huge success--mainly because of its intrinsic merits, additionally because the Big Book machine is obviously being revved up (fancy readers' copies, and so on), but also because of the immediacy of the subject matter for a large number of readers. Which brings me to the first of several points that, in hopes of brevity, I'll make check-list style rather than trying to connect normally.
-
First, I think you and I should be frank about the way our reaction may differ from that of many likely readers. I gather from your note that you've suffered nothing like the syndromes Solomon describes. Nor have I--though I have close friends who have, and if Solomon's statistics are correct, you probably do, too. We are, therefore, likely to "appreciate" or "learn from" this book, rather than devour it or live it the way people grappling with depression certainly will. Readers should judge our comments in that light.
Not to trivialize the point, but: Reading the book reminded me of happening upon Reader's Digest descriptions of obscure diseases when I was a child and being sure I was catching them myself. I read the story of a high-school football star who noticed a tingling in his fingers--and six months later, he'd lost his hand to leprosy! Hey, aren't my fingers feeling tingly, too? Only at the very end of the book, in a beautiful passage, does Solomon distinguish "routine" feelings of loss and despair from the beginning of depressive event:
Again, while we discuss this as reportage and analysis--and while some experts will no doubt dispute it as policy--I know that many readers will rush to it for tips on alternative therapies, for information about drugs, simply for solace.Even those who do not suffer from depression have blue moods sometimes, when little things seem to be full of reminders of mortality, when those who are gone or those times that are gone are missed suddenly and profoundly, when the simple fact that we exist in a transient world seems paralyzingly sad.
-
The book is full of unforgettable set pieces. You rightly mention his mother's suicide, to which we will return. On the talk show circuit, he has been describing the period in which, he says, he deliberately tried to get AIDS so he would have a "respectable" reason to kill himself. It will be a very long time before I forget an out-of-nowhere episode in West Africa, where Solomon goes to get a spiritual purging called an ndeup. He lies beneath blankets embracing a live ram, he watches the ram get slaughtered (some chickens die, too), he is coated with animal blood till it dries on him in clots and cakes--and then he is washed clean by women spitting water on him. I would find this unbelievable, except the magic of the Web backs the story up. (These sites from Senegal--click here and here--where Solomon went are in French but do back up his story. I should note that the photos don't depict the ram or a person covered in dried blood.)
-
I have a few questions about the reportorial technique in the book, epitomized by the bizarre visit to the Inuit. ("The Inuit are in my experience kind people," and so on.) I'll save those for later. For now, I agree with you that the "pointlessness" of the book is a tremendous virtue. Countless nonfiction books seem to be reduced to debating props, to support one side or another of a Crossfire-style exchange. The book is "about" all aspects of depression without limiting itself to a case for or against a certain drug, etiology, treatment, etc. Suppose we had to reduce its message to talk show form. My nominee would be: Almost any combination of factors can bring on depression--genetic predisposition, childhood trauma, world-historic tragedy (like the Holocaust), poverty, injury, addiction. And anything that makes patients feel better, from pharmaceuticals to "cheer up" philosophies, should be welcomed as a palliative though not a cure.
-
One final thought. Solomon emphasizes the months and years in which he did not work. He recalls in minute detail the stages of despair, collapse, listlessness, and enervation he went through during his depressions. Did you ever wonder: How did he take notes on all this? How does he remember? How did he get this enormous book done? Just curious--and respectful of the effort that created the book.
Back to you,
Jim
This week, Slate's Book Clubbers wade into Andrew Solomon's The Noonday Demon: An Atlas of Depression. Click here for an explanation of our format, here to read an excerpt, and here to buy the book. 
Slate Editors Spent All Day Arguing About Cancer Screenings and Health Care Rationing
What a Meal of Beef Stomach and Duck Throats Taught Me About the New China
The Blind Side: Illegal Use of Sandra Bullock
Train, Plane, or Automobile? What's the Greenest Way to Travel for Thanksgiving?
The Two Craziest Men in Hollywood Teamed Up To Make This Movie
Did Easy Rider's Predictions About America Come True?
Reader Comments From The Fray:
[Notes from the Fray Editor: One line in the piece "The chemical fetishism of newsweekly readers--the scientific folklore that depression's relationship to low serotonin, say, is as straightforward as diabetes's to low blood sugar--richly deserves such a slap" got a lot of attention. A couple of readers talked about diabetes and depression, here and here, and Mangar also took issue, below. Cato the Censor was more interested in the idea of taking pride in depression: "Contracting tuberculosis, for example, would not be occasion for pride because Keats shared this disease." Some readers gave their personal stories, below and here.]
If the idea that there's something else to depression besides just chemicals was a radical idea, a refreshing slap in the face, then mental health would look a lot different. We would be seeing a slow invasion of counselors (who talk to people and work on changing their thinking) into a world dominated by psychiatrist (who generally prescribe and monitor medication). In fact, it's a damn sight harder to get 15 minutes with a psychiatrist than an hour with a counselor, and medication is generally considered a "good adjunct" or "facilitator" to the work of therapy. Sure, meds help, but you're not likely to find a good psychiatrist who doesn't prescribe a healthy dose of counseling along with their Zoloft.
I'm curious to see where the writers come from on their pending discussion of evolution and depression. I have yet to read a convincing argument about the "use" of depression in an evolutionary sense. I've read some perfectly preposterous ones in the meantime, such as the "superorganism" concept put forth by Howard Bloom in The Lucifer Principle.
--Mangar
(To reply, click here.)
I am one of those chronically depressed people who the author writes about. I've been depressed since childhood, have attempted suicide, seen dozens of therapists, battled drug addiction, and have been prescribed levels of anti-depressants that are listed as overdoses in the medical literature. So I qualify as depressed, and yet have no interest in reading this book.
There are several reasons for this. One of the hallmarks of depression is despair. We depressives do not go in for self-help books---why bother? Anecdotes about fellow sufferers are of no interest to me. The fact that other people are equally miserable does nothing to make me feel better. If anything, it makes me feel worse. Anyhow, in my case, I feel that discussions about depression are irrelevant. Born with a congenital bone disease that has left me dwarfish and deformed, I have never had a girlfriend (or boyfriend) and nobody wants to hire me, despite my job skills. Frankly, faced with a lifetime of loneliness, ridicule, poverty and misery, depression seems to be the only sane attitude to have. And I suspect that many other depressed people feel the same way.
--Steinmetz
(To reply, click here.)
In my case (45 years old and suffering increasingly severe bouts of depression since early childhood) there is absolutely a direct relationship between events of significant loss and major depression. I don't suggest or believe this is true for all depressed people, but it's the foundational element of my trouble. And one more thing, related: I can easily name for you the one overwhelming emotion, or feeling, or whatever you want to call the thing depression is/has been for me, and that's this: Terror. Pure, horrific, terror, so unrelievedly painful I would repeat to myself (during episodes, one as long as 10 months) "I just can't believe this is happening to me."
--Dian
(To reply, click here.)
(6/21)