The College Derby Andrew: Ferguson's delightful plea for sanity about college admissions.

Timothy Noah:

I have this problem. I can't read self-help books. Like everybody else, I've experienced my share of life challenges--"life challenges" being the self-help euphemism for "problems"--and I would never pretend not to need any help in facing them, solving them, or at least getting through them. I accept the principles of, and am myself no stranger to, modern psychotherapy. But whenever I try to cope with one of life's predictable stress points by reading a self-help book, I can't manage it. My eyes glaze over. I think "This person is an idiot," or "This person thinks I'm an idiot," or "Maybe I am an idiot, because I can't follow this." Within minutes I toss the book aside and start digging around for a decent novel.

hat I've come to believe is that psychological advice isn't worth much if it isn't rooted in personal experience. So instead of reading self-help books I read memoirs about the kinds of experience I'm trying to cope with. It doesn't especially matter whether the author went about confronting his problem in a sensible way, nor even, necessarily, whether the author came out of the experience with a clear understanding of what he did right and what he did wrong. For instance, just about the last person I'd look to for personal advice about anything is Joan Didion. But when my wife died six years ago, I devoured Didion's best-selling memoir about widowhood, The Year of Magical Thinking, and then for good measure I read the script she wrote when she adapted it into a one-person show starring Vanessa Redgrave. (If asked to blurb either, I'd write, "Loopy but compelling.") I read Donald Hall's lovely book of poems about his wife's death, Without, and Hall's more tedious nonfiction reworking of the same material, The Best Day, The Worst Day. I read a mediocre book called Widow written three decades earlier by a publicist for Little, Brown named Lynn Caine, and a brilliant book--the gold standard on widowhood--called A Grief Observed, written four decades earlier by C.S. Lewis, an author I'd previously avoided like the plague. Some of these books were more helpful than others, but all provided some form of "self-help." Meanwhile, a stack of self-help books pressed on me by well-meaning friends gathered dust.

Posted by Jim Zellmer at March 25, 2011 2:42 AM
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