Review: Kristin Neff’s ‘Self-Compassion’

★★☆☆☆

Initial rating lowered from three stars to a shaky two. At first, I thought my resistance to this book was a defence mechanism, but the more I reflect on it, the more my dislike feels justified.

As a therapeutic practice, self-compassion is the art of recognising our own sufferings and being gentle on ourselves. It can help us reject the urge to beat ourselves up for our flaws and failings in favour of a more forgiving, pragmatic mindset. In short, ‘don’t be so hard on yourself, you’re only human.’

Kristin Neff is one of the leading psychologists in the field of self-compassion, and with its thousands of five-star reviews, it is clear that Self-compassion (2011) has helped many people develop this ability to empathise with themselves and to live happier lives. Unfortunately, I did not come away counting myself as one of them.

Self-compassion was recommended to me during counselling on the basis that I tend to be pretty dismissive towards myself and my own feelings. Like anything that holds a mirror to unpleasant truths, I knew this would likely be an uncomfortable read. The issue is not that I found this book challenging, however, but that I found it off-putting. Though I agree with the premise of self-compassion, and I would like to embrace it as a means of rewiring my overly critical brain, the way this book packages its ideas makes them very difficult to swallow.

I gently stroked my arms and spoke to myself in a kind, sympathetic manner. Poor darling. This is really hard right now. I comforted myself for the pain of being treated so unfairly.

For one thing, and I say this delicately, Neff’s writing is not the best. Flowery and repetitive, this book says in 270 pages what it might in 50. Also, though Neff does make some good points about the value of being self-compassionate in an often incompassionate world, the chapters are littered with linguistic mistakes such as ‘set your sites’. Given that the author has a PhD and a wealth of published research, it is reasonable to assume that she is highly intelligent, but the writing does not reflect this. I found this book dumbed down, and in places superficial.

Neff frames self-compassion through the lens of her own life experiences, particularly the breakdown of her first marriage following her affair. One of her main points is that since her ex-husband was unable to forgive her, she had to choose to forgive herself instead. Whatever our worst mistakes are, it is true that we must find ways to live with them, but I would argue it is equally important to own them and, as much as possible, to atone for the hurt caused to others. Neff believes her troubled relationship with her father and her ex-husband’s neglectful tendencies contributed to her own behaviour, which is a fair observation, but she carries this to the point of absolving herself of any responsibility for her own actions.

The thrust seems to be that there is no point in ever feeling bad for mistakes already made, because feeling bad is unpleasant, and our mistakes are never really our fault, anyway. All very comforting, but this ignores the reality that there are contexts in which we should feel bad. Never allowing ourselves to feel guilty means ignoring the ugly fallout of poor decisions and shying away from earning the forgiveness of those we have wronged. There are certain no-win situations in which this mindset may be helpful, but in suggesting that it is the ultimate trump card to play against life’s problems, Neff heavily implies that personal happiness is more important than personal honour, consideration for others, and integrity.

And who wants to be stuck in a box labeled “good” anyway? Isn’t it more interesting to revel in the full range of human experience? Instead of trying to control ourselves and our lives to obtain a perfectionistic ideal, why not embrace life as it is – both the light and the shadow? What adventures might follow if we free ourselves in this way?

Another point of focus is Neff’s struggle to accept her son’s autism diagnosis. The way the book discusses this is frankly quite depressing. The language surrounding neurodiversity has certainly evolved in the last decade, but it is not the language Neff uses that is the issue. The problem is that Neff makes it abundantly clear that she was only able to ‘accept’ her son’s autism when he learned (or was forced to learn) how to mask his autistic traits. The book all but states that the reason Neff has grown to feel incredibly proud of Rowan is because no one notices he is autistic anymore.

The last section of the book focuses particularly on this, diving into a strange tangent about the traditional healing experience Neff and her husband subjected their son to as a tantrum-prone, incontinent young child. Off the back of some equine therapy in the States, Neff and her husband decided to take Rowan to Mongolia for several weeks of hard riding in the steppe to meet a group of shamans. Though experts in the field agree there is no way to ‘fix’ autism, maybe magic would do the trick… The gist of it is that the shamans claimed Rowan was possessed by the ghost of his great-grandmother, then scared him into submission with loud noises and made him watch whilst they whipped his parents with rawhide.

Needless to say, this is not a healthy way to help a child cope with their autism, nor to deal with the weight of a diagnosis as a parent. I feel for Rowan, who is probably now old enough to understand how much distress his parents were willing to put him through in the hope of changing an essential part of his nature. Neff is convinced that this experience was transformative, which seeds considerable doubt in my mind about her honesty, and her credibility as a mental health professional.

Overall, I found the tone of Self-compassion more self-absorbed than self-aware. Some of the exercises at the end of each chapter do offer a springboard for self-reflection, and there are a few nuggets of information scattered throughout for those who enjoy psychology, but my rating reflects the problematic delivery and the fact that I found little here that was truly helpful. I would also say that you can find all the exercises included in this book, and more, simply by Googling self-compassion.

Review: Adam Rutherford’s ‘How to Argue With a Racist’

★★★☆☆

3.5 stars. I thoroughly enjoyed Adam Rutherford’s other books on genetics, so I figured it would be worth finishing the set. At less than 170 pages, How to Argue With a Racist (2020) is a concise read about scientific racism (known in certain circles as race science), and the lack of evidence that supports it.

My rating reflects my opinion that this book is somewhat dumbed down when compared with A Brief History of Everyone Who Ever Lived and The Book of Humans. How to Argue With a Racist also rehashes several topics that are discussed in Rutherford’s previous works. Here, the author delves a little deeper into the history of race, and there is some discussion about the false ideas about genetics and racial groups that were perpetuated specifically during the pandemic, but a lot of the content will feel familiar to those who have read his other books.

The focus of How to Argue With a Racist is the irrelevance of skin colour when it comes to measuring genetic variation in humans, as well as the unsavoury relationship between early genetic studies and eugenics. The mission seems to be to dispel outdated, disproven ideas about ‘racial purity’, and to dissect the pseudoscience that sustains false narratives about the existence of genetically distinct racial categories.

What we can also say with an arsenal of scientific ammunition is that though skin colour is the first and most obvious way we see humans, it’s a superficial route to an understanding of human variation, and a very bad way to classify people.

Not all racial stereotypes seem racist. At a glance, the idea that black people are naturally the fastest runners and the notion that East Asians have a gift for numbers seem flattering – we might even be tempted to use these examples to counter more negative prejudices. However, there is no actual evidence that connects physical or mental aptitude (or lack thereof) with melanin. These judgements, whether good or bad, are dehumanising, and serve only to blinker our worldview.

Deftly dismantling a number of common racist assumptions, Rutherford presents the facts through various case studies, including the relationship between IQ and malnutrition, the men’s 100 metres at the Olympics, and the higher mortality rate during the pandemic among BAME populations. The book also delves into the racial prejudices of early geneticists, many of whom were guilty of baking false assumptions into their research.

Another of the main thrusts here is the fact that classifying humans into subcategories on the basis of skin colour has always owed more to cultural, socioeconomic and geographical factors than genetic inheritance. The racial categories that we commonly use are simply not supported by our genes, something that scientists have known for a while – studies in the early 70s revealed that approximately 85% of genetic diversity in the human species is found within populations who share the same skin tone.

…every Nazi has Jewish ancestors. Every white supremacist has Middle Eastern ancestors. Every racist has African, Indian, Chinese, Native American, aboriginal Australian ancestors, as well as everyone else, and not just in the sense that humankind is an African species in deep prehistory, but at a minimum from classical times, and probably much more recently. Racial purity is a pure fantasy. For humans, there are no purebloods, only mongrels enriched by the blood of multitudes.

The sensationalised title does rather beg the question, so let’s ask it. Will this book equip the reader to argue with a racist? To change their mind? If the racist in question is prepared to look at the science with open eyes and to build a new belief system based on factual data, then I would say the odds are good. Personally, I am not sure whether such a racist actually exists, and I do not think this approach is likely to succeed in most cases. At the root, racism is a kind of fear, and rare is the emotional state that can be changed through rational, evidence-based discussion. Overall, the title of this book feels like something of an own goal, since How to Argue With a Racist makes no attempt to tackle the conundrum of how to make racists receptive to truths that contradict their worldview and personal feelings.

However, disheartening though it is to read about the unpleasant views that were once commonplace – and that still find support in certain corners of the internet – this book is uplifting in the sense that it shows the leaps we have made in understanding our differences (and, more importantly, our similarities). By dissecting scientific racism in all its most pervasive forms, Rutherford reveals it as a losing team in the search for truth.

I don’t think this is the author’s best book, but I probably would have learned more from it had I picked it up without background knowledge gleaned from his other works. It is a well-written and accessible text, and worth adding to your TBR if you want to know what our genes say about racial predjudices, origins and identity.

Review: Malala Yousafzai’s ‘I am Malala’

★★★☆☆

On the 9th of October, 2012, a 15-year-old girl was shot in the head on her way home from school. Miraculously, she survived. Her name, of course, is Malala Yousafzai, and I am Malala (2013) is her story.

This autobiography was written in co-authorship with a British journalist, Christina Lamb, and was published just a year after the infamous Taliban attack. These are important facts to consider when contextualising the book. Though she would go on to become the youngest ever Nobel Peace Laureate the following year, in 2013 Malala had not even finished school. True, she was a seasoned campaigner, having spent several years fighting for her right to education, but she was also an injured, traumatised teenager who had survived against all odds. Still healing, she was busy adjusting to the reality of international fame and her dramatically different new life in the UK.

Malala is now 26, and it is natural to wonder what her reflections would look like if she rewrote them today. Off the back of her Oxford degree and a further decade of life experience, I suspect this would be a different book.

For the record, I do think Malala herself is an inspiration, particularly to bookish girls, and my rating does not reflect my opinion of her character. However, I am Malala is less a testament to this remarkable young woman’s courage than a textbook on Pakistan’s political history. The tone is dry, and the goal seems to be less to tell Malala’s story than to contextualise her near-death experience within 50 years of social upheaval. Given than neither Malala nor Christina Lamb are historians, it is perhaps fair to question whether their shared views are the best source from which to glean a factual overview of Pakistan’s complicated, tumultuous past.

My father brushed it off. But I was worried. He was outspoken and involved in so many groups and committees that he often wouldn’t come home until midnight. He started to sleep at one of his friend’s houses to protect us in case the Taliban came for him. He couldn’t bear the thought of being killed in front of us.

This is a short read – just 270 pages – but I found it difficult to get into, and often caught myself flicking ahead to count the remaining pages. After a while, I grew tired of waiting for Malala’s story to actually begin. The book focuses heavily on the historical context that ultimately led to the shooting, to the point that it ends up discussing Malala’s father more than Malala herself. The first 200 pages centre around his efforts to open a school and continue educating girls under an increasingly repressive Taliban regime, sparing little attention towards Malala’s own campaigning efforts.

Malala’s love for her father is touching, and understanding why an adolescent girl was on the Taliban’s hitlist does necessitate the context of her family and upbringing. However, the focus on her father’s work means that the aftermath of the shooting – arguably the most pivotal few months of Malala’s young life – is crammed into just 60 pages at the end of the book. Her lengthy recovery and the shock of moving to the UK are addressed almost as an afterthought.

Though the last section feels very rushed, I found the rest of the book laboured and drawn-out. The prose is list-like, and often lifeless. At 16, there is little doubt that Malala was wise beyond her years, but the book fails to reflect this, revealing little of her character beyond a few cornerstone religious values. There are some distractingly infantile word choices, and the overall focus on history and politics (for the most part, her father’s) makes the writing feel impersonal.

In Pakistan when women say they want independence, people think this means we don’t want to obey our fathers, brothers or husbands. But it does not mean that. It means we want to make decisions for ourselves. We want to be free to go to school or to go to work. Nowhere is it written in the Quran that a woman should be dependent on a man. The word has not come down from the heavens to tell us that every woman should listen to a man.

Though it is difficult to say where Malala’s writing ends and Christina Lamb’s begins, given the speed at which this book was published, and Malala’s state of health at the time, I think it is reasonable to assume that Lamb’s contribution was substantial. Possibly, this somewhat smothered Malala’s young voice, which may explain why I am Malala lacks a real sense of its author’s personality.

Publishing around the first anniversary of the shooting was almost certainly a calculated move, designed to capitalise on the media attention surrounding Malala at that time. However, I do think this would have been a much better book had it been written a few years later, when Malala was more settled in her new life and perhaps capable of telling her story by herself.

To read this now is to recognise that it is no longer a well-rounded picture of Malala and her achievements, if indeed it ever was. I probably would have found the text more relevant if I had read it sooner, but overall my impression is that the cover and title are misleading. The focus is not Malala’s story. For that reason, I would say this book is ripe for a rewrite.

Review: Robert V. Levine’s ‘Stranger in the Mirror’

★★★★☆

This book is a fascinating read, and one I thoroughly recommend to anyone who enjoys a good dose of psychology. Discussing psychological research, as well as a few ideas from neuroscience, social science and philosophy, The Stranger in the Mirror: The Scientific Search for the Self offers a deep dive into scientific opinion on the nature of the self.

As Socrates said, ‘to know thyself is the beginning of wisdom’, but achieving this knowing is not as simple as it sounds. To truly understand the self, it seems logical that we must first define it, and that means wrestling with one of philosophy’s oldest questions. Though we talk endlessly of ‘self help’, ‘finding ourselves’ and that old favourite, ‘to thine own self be true’, the exact nature of selfhood is decidedly elusive. Some might describe the self as a series of electrical signals in the brain. Others would define it more spiritually, or in abstract terms such as ‘measure me by my actions’ and ‘I am the sum of my experiences.’ Whichever definition we lean towards, it probably says more about our own belief system than any objective truth. In reality, we cannot even be sure that the self is singular. The idea that most people have multiple selves, each one a facet to be revealed or concealed depending on the social or situational context, is surprisingly persuasive. And that’s without bringing the complexities of Dissociative Identity Disorder to the table.

This was an accidental read for me. Based on the title, I expected the book to discuss the psychological experience known as depersonalisation – in extreme cases, this form of disassociation can result in the inability to recognise one’s own reflection. Instead, Stranger in the Mirror refers to the phenomenon in the context of Alzheimer’s patients, and the overall focus is considerably broader. The ambition – and ambition is definitely the word – of this 240-page book is nothing less than a complete dissection and analysis of the self.

To say that we lack a true self has a hollow ring to it. But the stories in this book are not meant to belittle. Rather, I hope to show they reveal tremendous possibilities. The very features of the self that can be so problematic – its arbitrary boundaries, multiplicities, and malleability – create possibilities for change.

Needless to say, the amount of ground covered here makes for pacey reading, but Levine does manage to explore many of his various subheadings with surprising detail. There are even a few experiments and brain training exercises to try. I particularly enjoyed the chapter about Alien Hand Syndrome (yes, a real thing), as well as Levine’s study on the way collectivist and individualist cultures may influence how much we value a sense of self that separates us from the people around us.

Anyone who has studied psychology in sixth form will find sections of this book familiar – to name a few, the Stanford Prison Experiment and Sperry’s drastic surgical treatment for epilepsy. This does not feel like tired regurgitation, however, because Levine frames these well-known examples through a new, eye-opening lens, using them in support of his argument that we are, all of us, a great deal less fixed in our natures than we might believe, and capable of greater transformations than we may dare to imagine.

I really enjoyed this book. I think a chapter about scientific opinion on spiritual and substance-induced experiences that ‘transcend’ the self would have been a great addition, but the only real issue I had with this book was its typos, which are noticeable throughout. In all other respects, Stranger in the Mirror is an inviting, accessible text packed with interesting ideas. Even when the book ventures into some of the heavier sciences, the presentation remains friendly and informative. The self in all its forms is not a topic that offers many clear-cut answers, but Levine’s multi-disciplined, speculative approach makes for an intriguing, thought-provoking read.

If you are a psychology nerd, this one is definitely for you. I would also recommend this book to anyone looking to deepen their sense of self-understanding.

Review: Antoine de Saint-Exupéry’s ‘Wind, Sand and Stars’

★★★☆☆

Written in haunting, lyrical prose, this short autobiography offers a window into the heart and mind of one of France’s most famous aviators. Antoine de Saint-Exupéry, author of the beloved children’s classic, The Little Prince, flew from the 1920s until the mid-1940s, an era of flimsy, unreliable aircraft and brave, pioneering pilots. Working for one of the first commerical airlines, Saint-Exupéry – or Saint-Ex, as he was generally known – played a part in opening the earliest airmail routes over the world’s most towering mountain ranges and vastest oceans. This was an uncertain, dangerous enterprise, and one that cost many aviators their lives.

In remembering lost comrades and documenting close brushes with death, this piece of writing is eerily prescient, almost seeming to forebode its author’s ultimate disappearance. Saint-Ex took his last flight in 1944, and never returned. Though it is generally agreed that his plane, recovered as wreckage off the French coast in 2000, was likely shot down by the German occupation, Saint-Ex’s various battles with depression continue to lend the circumstances surrounding his death an air of tragic mystery.

Wind, Sand and Stars is not an autobiography in the traditional sense. It does not follow a narrative structure, nor really even discuss the events of the author’s life. The book has its anecdotes, including Saint-Ex’s unlikely survival after crash landing in the Sahara, but these are its barest bones. The meat of the text is its poetic philosophy about life and mankind.

Saint-Ex was a particularly sensitive, sentimental man, torn between his desire to feel truly loved and a restless yearning to feel truly alive, a struggle this book reveals through its contrasts. Wind, Sand and Stars sings with hope for the future and the potential of humanity, but the author’s moments of greatest happiness all seem to have taken place when he transcended the mess of civilisation. There is no doubt that Saint-Ex loved the human race, but it seems he loved it best from a considerable distance. Evidently, it was whilst exploring the world’s most desolate landscapes, far removed from people in their actuality, that he most keenly recognised the beauty of humanity.

To be a man is, precisely, to be responsible. It is to feel shame at the sight of what seems to be unmerited misery. It is to take pride in a victory won by one’s comrades. It is to feel, when setting one’s stone, that one is contributing to the building of the world.

To be frank, I am not the ideal reader for this book. To fully appreciate Saint-Ex, his prose really does need to be read in the original French. Something has been lost here in the translation (including the metaphors conveyed by the original title, Terre des Hommes). Also, Saint-Ex’s passion for aviation means that someone who shares his love of flying will probably draw more joy from reading this than I did.

Personally, I found this book a little dated. It uses some fusty language, and embodies a worldview that feels slightly antiquated. Saint-Ex lived in a time of expanding horizons, and deeply believed that the airmail routes would lead to a brighter, connected world. In his mind, connecting people was about fostering their sense of shared humanity, something that would inevitably triumph over tribalism and political disunity. In some ways, he was right to be so romantic and hopeful, but to read this book in our divided modern world is to recognise that its vision of harmonious global fraternity remains far from realised. Indeed, in the world as it exists today, the idea of all humanity being united simply by the fact of humanity seems rather naive. There is nothing wrong with indulging a bit of wistful idealism, but the seriousness with which this book regards itself strikes as vaguely delusional.

Wind, Sand and Stars is also rather meandering. The 120 pages feel like a considerably longer read – in places, I could feel my eyes glazing over with boredom. Though the prose is beautiful, even in translation, every sentence is a literary flourish. It is an endlessly quotable book, and if you are a true romantic, as Saint-Ex obviously was, I have no doubt you will love his flowery writing style, but many readers will likely find the descriptions overwritten.

For fans of The Little Prince, I would recommend this book, as it offers great insight on the parallels between the author’s fiction and his real-life adventures. Also, as a reflection on the unique perspective travelling the skies offers on the world below, I do not deny that this is a moving piece of writing. Perhaps the main problem here is simply that flying is not for us what it was to Saint-Ex. With the vast majority of our aviation experiences bookended by security queues, bureaucratic visa procedures and dismal airline lounges, it can be difficult to grasp any sense of the wonder of flight. The spiritual insights that Saint-Ex gleaned from his time in the sky, whilst beautifully expressed, seem to belong to another time.

I am not talking about living dangerously. Such words are meaningless to me. The toreador does not stir me to enthusiasm. It is not danger I love. I know what I love. It is life.

Review: Adam Rutherford’s ‘The Book of Humans’

★★★★☆

An easy but informative read, The Book of Humans is perhaps best described as a science book for non-scientists. If you understand genetics and evolution at a level any more advanced than the average school curriculum, this book is unlikely to offer much by way of surprise. For the rest of us, however, who want to learn but need things spelled out in simpler terms than can be found in most dedicated scientific texts, The Book of Humans is the education in human evolution we have always wanted.

Rutherford believes we, the human race, are special. We may be just one branch on the almighty tree of life on Earth, but it is hard to deny that we stand alone in our sheer capacity as a species. So far as we know, only humans are capable of moral choices, complex language and the passing of advanced skills and technology from one generation to the next. On Earth, no species save us has ever built such a pyramid of knowledge. As far as we know, we are the most intelligent organism to ever exist.

As a worldview, this is extremely anthropocentric, but the thing that makes this book interesting is its ultimate inability to satisfyingly prove the inherent ‘specialness’ of humanity. As each chapter compares our supposedly unique qualities with case studies from the animal kingdom and archeological evidence left behind by the species from which homo sapiens evolved, Rutherford ends up doing less to elevate us and more to place us within the bigger picture – a picture that includes the clever creatures that came before and many that exist alongside us today.

Genes are the units of inheritance, the things that are selected by nature to be carried into the future. Nature sees the physical manifestation of a gene – the phenotype – and as a result of that trait enhancing survival, the DNA underwriting it succeeds, and is passed on down the generations. Genes are the templates on which our lives are built.

Juvenille, maybe, but I do think the best section of this book is the bit about sex. From the evolutionary purpose of cunnilingus to penis fencing and the overwhelming prevalence of homosexuality in male giraffes, Rutherford explores this fascinating topic from some unusual, provoking angles. Like all the most readable non-fiction, this section of the text offers two pleasures: an enlightening read, and then the joy of presenting weird facts to your friends during otherwise normal conversations.

Other highlights include passages about prehistoric art and the development of language, by which point you might as well read the whole book. In its entirety, The Book of Humans is not much of a commitment, offering just 220 pages of actual content, bulked out by a long bibliography. It is an accessible, inviting read, largely because of Rutherford’s personable writing voice and contagious enthusiasm. Blending science with softer, sociological analysis, it may perhaps be said that this text offers more breadth than depth, but this does make it an effective gateway drug towards further reading.

Rutherford fans will note that The Book of Humans can be easily compared to A Brief History of Everyone Who Ever Lived – though The Book of Humans is much more concerned with animals and environmental factors than people and populations. A Brief History is the meatier (and in my opinion the better) book, so I would suggest reading that one first, but together these two texts offer a fun, friendly welcome to the topic of genetic ancestry. Speaking as someone with only a rather selective, patchy interest in science, I throughly recommend.

Review: Seb Falk’s ‘The Light Ages’

★★★☆☆

Why are there 12 months in a year? How did Oxford and Cambridge become such academic cities? What is an astrolabe? These questions and more the curious reader can find answered in this journey through the celestial discoveries of the Middle Ages.

The Light Ages sets out its stall as a challenge to anyone whose idea of the Medieval era is a depressing picture characterised by dysentery, feudal wars and religious intolerance. Seb Falk aims to show us that our stereotypes are not only reductive, but often inaccurate. Really, the so-called ‘Dark Ages’ were a time of significant social progress and scientific discovery. Despite the long shadow of the Black Plague, this was an era of broadening horizons and international collaboration. Perhaps for the first time, humanity had the tools to answer big questions about the stars, the universe and our place within a wider cosmos. In exploring these early breakthroughs, Falk reveals the surprising enlightenment of what is generally considered a rather brutal and backward chapter in European history.

Astronomy is not, I confess, a field that particularly interests me, so it is fair to say I was drawn to this book only by misguided expectation. Where I hoped to find medical and sociocultural history, I got mechanics and mathematics. Some of the concepts this books presents were simply too technical to sustain my interest, but I did find The Light Ages a surprisingly engaging read. There are a few chapters that I thoroughly enjoyed, and the book served to correct a number of negative misconceptions I had about the Church’s historical relationship with science. Even if you have no interest in STEM, there is no denying that the Middle Ages is an unusual angle to explore these subjects from, and Falk’s enthusiasm makes the text an inviting one.

Disparaging the ‘Dark Ages’, as we have already seen, has always been about making ourselves seem better by comparison. But we should not award points for being like us. Viewing the past as an imperfectly developed version of the present day can lull us into complacency about the state of our own knowledge, allowing us to ignore what we still do not know or cannot do, as well as how fragile the structures and status of science are. The measure of medieval ideas should never be ‘how closely do they match our superior modern ways?’, but rather ‘how important were they in their time?’, and ‘what impact did they have?’

Clip the bibliography, and The Light Ages is a slim 300 pages. For me, this felt like a much longer read, in part because of the wordy language and frequent references to scientific theorems. Falk’s narrative voice makes use of gentle humour, but there are long passages of very dry description, making the book a digestive challenge. For those not well-versed in the subject matter, this is a text which demands some commitment.

Ultimately, perseverance does offer some payoff. The initial chapters meander across a wide landscape of learning, offering many interesting nuggets of information. I found the chapter on the foundation of universities particularly strong. The text becomes more specialised as it goes on, however, which in some ways makes the reading an uphill battle. The final straight is an especial struggle, with an exclusive focus on orbit paths, trigonometry and the earliest stabs at computing. For wizards in maths, I’m sure this is very interesting, but I would be hesitant to claim these topics boast much wider appeal.

The book is also, loosely, a biography. Falk charts a course through the various discoveries by connecting them (often rather tenuously) to the life of a rather obscure monk, John Westwyk. The book freely admits that we know very little about this man, which makes for an odd, haphazard structure. A life that has for the most part faded into unrecorded history is difficult to craft into any sort of factual narrative, and the large chunks of Westwyk’s life that remain unknown mean that the book skips about in a manner that is sometimes hard to follow.

Personable but challenging, The Light Ages shelves as rather a niche read. For the astronomers among us, I am sure it can be received with genuine fascination. Though I cannot say my interest was gripped raptly, I do recognise that Falk presents his subject matter with the loving and knowledgeable devotion of a true enthusiast. Overall, 3.5 stars.

Review: Viktor E. Frankl’s ‘Man’s Search for Meaning’

★★★★★

Published in 1946, this concise 160-page book is first a brief autobiography of the author’s harrowing experiences during his three years of imprisonment in the Nazi concentration camps. This is followed by an essay which outlines the foundations of logotherapy. An influential school of psychotherapy, still popular today, logotherapy was born out of Viktor E. Frankl’s ideas about resilience, many of which were reinforced to him during the Holocaust. The book closes on a poignant, reflective epilogue, ‘The Case for Tragic Optimism’.

The premise of logotherapy is that human behaviour is largely driven by our search for meaning. Frankl believed this ‘will to meaning’ to be a far more powerful motivator than the ‘will to pleasure’ (Sigmund Freud’s line of thinking) or the ‘will to power’ (another popular theory, posited by Alfred Adler). For those souls unable to find a sense of meaning in their lives, Frankl hypothesised an inevitable descent into existential despair.

Even the most nihilistic among us can take some comfort, however, since Frankl believed a sense of meaning to be very much within reach, even for those trapped in the most horrific circumstances. Central to logotherapy is the idea that in extreme situations where meaning cannot be found in the things we hope to achieve or through connection with the people we love, we have one last resort: to seek meaning in our own suffering. Frankl acknowledged that we cannot choose what happens to us, but he did believe we can choose how to interpret our experiences. We can take our misfortune as meaningless happenstance, or we can reconcile our suffering with meaning by accepting it as an opportunity for growth. Frankl’s experiences led him to the conviction that the act of imposing a meaning on suffering also alleviates much of its psychological burden.

In some way, suffering ceases to be suffering at the moment it finds a meaning, such as the meaning of a sacrifice.

The ‘what doesn’t kill you makes you stronger’ mentality has fallen somewhat out of favour in recent times. I think this in part because these words are often thrown at desperately unhappy people in an almost accusatory manner. However kind the intention, a lack of context or sensitivity can load these words with the implication ‘so pull yourself together’. It is also very obvious that there are cases where suffering does not serve to strengthen the human spirit, but to break it.

However, despite the parallels between this idea and those at the heart of logotherapy, it is difficult to raise such arguments against Frankl. Any honest reading of this text will acknowledge that there is lot more to logotherapy than this premise. Also, given that Frankl lived through one of the greatest atrocities in human history, losing his parents, brother, friends and wife to the gas chambers, dismissing his hard-won wisdom as ‘idealistic naivete’ feels in itself extremely naïve.

In presenting his experiences through the lens of a psychotherapeutic theory, Frankl did not allow for any great wealth of sentimentality, but this is not to say Man’s Search for Meaning lacks feeling. Indeed, Frankl’s gift as a writer was his ability to say a great deal in very few words. The book is full of powerful sentences that demand a breath of pause, and the short anecdotes about the author’s patients are all memorable, touching examples of lives that were truly changed by the logotherapeutic approach. I have read other books about psychotherapy and grieving, but I cannot say that any of them spoke to me like this one. Certain passages had me in tears.

At the close, I do not think there is anything I can fairly criticise about Man’s Search for Meaning, save to say that I wish it was a longer book. There are certainly some topics I would have liked to read about in more depth – Frankl’s views on the mentality of the SS guards at the camps for one – but I do concede that the conciseness is partly what gives this enlightening text its power. Rarely are such phrases truly merited, but in this case it is no exaggeration. This truly is a life-changing read.

Instead of possibilities, I have realities in my past, not only the reality of work done and of love loved, but of sufferings bravely suffered. These sufferings are even the things of which I am most proud, though these are things which cannot inspire envy.

Review: Laura Bates’ ‘Men Who Hate Women’

★★★★☆

Men Who Hate Women is a deep dive into the ‘manosphere’, an online realm of extreme misogyny inhabited by incels, pickup artists and the radical antifeminists who dominate the Men’s Rights Movement. As well as exploring all these groups’ ties to the alt-right and the obvious impact misogyny has on women, Bates also pays great attention to the devastating effect misogynistic ideologies have on young men and boys. Given the evidence it presents, the book would arguably be better titled ‘Men Who Hate the World and Everyone in It (Including Themselves)’.

Bates does not shy away from unsettling facts – indeed, she presents them with evidence that is difficult to dismiss. However, the thing I found most alarming about this book is that I went into it thinking I already had a decent handle on the topics it presents. I did not think it would be news to me that the internet is a big, scary place, or that it offers a dark refuge for extreme, abhorrent views. I already believed that the threat of sexual assault and male violence looms large in many women’s lives. As it turns out, my viewpoint was one of relative innocence. A word of advice? Strap in. The education this book offers is a rough, uncomfortable ride.

To take one example, we often think of incels – men who claim they are victims of ‘involuntary celibacy’ – as an unfortunate few who have fallen through the cracks due to weakness of character or a lack of positive male role models. Given that incel communities are generally confined to online platforms, it is easy to believe that these people do not exist in the real world. Indeed, the comfort provided by this notion means that many mass shooters, whose bile-laden manifestos include statements along the lines of ‘death to all women’, are characterised as misguided oddballs. Their violent, deadly behaviour is often presented as mental illness rather the symptom of any wider trend. Dismissing misogyny as a motivation in mass shootings becomes harder to argue, however, when we acknowledge that 96% of shooters are male, together with the rather stark fact that incel communities are exactly the place where many shooters are radicalised in the first place.

The majority of men are good and kind and would never dream of committing such crimes. But that must not prevent us from recognising that those who do are not always acting in a vacuum.

Bates is a skilled non-fiction writer. She does not play for easy points by approaching her arguments from sensationalist angles that compel an emotive instead of a considered response. She gives us the facts, as grim as they are, and builds nothing from them without drawing on a wealth of compelling evidence. In places the writing style is somewhat list-like, but Bates maintains her precision throughout. Whilst taking us on a grimy tour through the manosphere, the author discusses the differences between the (alarmingly few) organisations that genuinely promote the interests of vulnerable men and boys and those that embody resentment towards all things feminine. Though this book is not a direct response to any essay or speech in particular, Bates also makes time to challenge some of the rigid definitions of masculinity espoused by conservative darlings such as Jordan B. Peterson.

Because the book is only 350 pages, it is fair to say that not all its content is presented in great detail. In particular, I do not think the topic of ‘rabbit hole’ algorithms is given the pages it deserves. However, the book introduces a number of helpful resources for further research – for me, this included the YouTube channel, ContraPoints (I have linked Natalie Wynn’s video essay on incels below). Despite the complexity of some of the ideas presented, Men Who Hate Women also deserves recognition as an accessible, unpretentious text.

As I mentioned in my review of Revolting Prostitutes a few weeks ago, I think the best non-fiction allows its reader to read their way to a changed perspective or deepened understanding. For me, one of the big takeaways from this book is the age at which I would consider discussing feminism and sexual politics with my future children. Bates’ experiences as a classroom speaker on the topic of sexual assault brought home to me the understanding that these topics should be addressed a lot earlier than puberty, particularly with boys who have exposed to sexist rhetoric and pornography.

At the close, I would have liked to explore some of the concepts Bates presents in more depth, and I do think the book’s focus on the US and the UK means it lacks international context. Overall though, this is an eye-opening, informative read, well worth making some time for.

Review: Robin Wall Kimmerer’s ‘Braiding Sweetgrass’

★★★☆☆

3.5 stars for a book which reads as a labour of love. I confess, I deliberated long and hard on my rating for this review. On one hand, I found Braiding Sweetgrass a moving and intelligent read, but on the other I cannot deny that this book is too long for its own good, and sugary.

Part scientific text, part cultural study, part memoir, Braiding Sweetgrass is a worthwhile read for anyone interested in ecology or the relationship between native American peoples and the land. Kimmerer is both scientist and spiritualist, and the book reads as an attempt to marry these disciplines, natural enemies though faith and fact may be. In discussing the trials and triumphs of efforts to restore indigenous traditions and improve humanity’s skewed relationship with nature, Kimmerer also reveals a looser, personal struggle to reclaim herself and her Potawatomi heritage.

The author uses some clever, illustrative comparisons to align us with her way of thinking. I found the metaphor of the Wendigo as the bottomless appetite of rampant capitalism particularly striking. With links to traditional teachings and tribal mythologies, the practice of gratitude as an essential part of sustainable living is also presented in a compelling light. Endlessly quotable, the writing throughout is resonant and strong.

The mycorrhizae may form fungal bridges between individual trees, so that all the trees in a forest are connected. These fungal networks appear to redistribute the wealth of carbohydrates from tree to tree. A kind of Robin Hood, they take from the rich and give to the poor so that all the trees arrive at the same carbon surplus at the same time. They weave a web of reciprocity, of giving and taking. In this way, the trees all act as one because the fungi have connected them. Through unity, survival. All flourishing is mutual. 

There is such a thing as too much of a good thing, however, and as the book wears on in episodic chapters, it is hard to escape the weariness of repeated themes and motifs. Though the text meanders between Kimmerer’s life, her studies and spiritual beliefs, at its core are only a handful of ideas about the importance of maintaining a symbiotic relationship with our environment. Simply put, none of these ideas have a complexity that can sustain 400 pages. Taking only what is needed is not a principle Kimmerer applies to the economy of words in her writing, which is a shame. Less would likely have said a lot more.

Even as someone who likes to roam the woods for the love of trees, I have to say I found the anthropomorphic accents of this text rather cloying. I believe we can respect plants without relating them directly to us as our sisters, grandmothers and aunts. I also think that freeing our relationship with nature from our own egotism involves deciding that life is always worthy of respect, even when it has no ‘gift’ to offer us. It is true that squashes, beans and corn are treasures from the earth to be grateful for, but Kimmerer neglects to discuss our relationship, or lack thereof, with the many plants that are toxic or deadly to humans. With its focus on what are essentially transactional relationships, Braiding Sweetgrass seems to imply that only those forms of life which give us sustenance or materials are really worthy of our attention. Water hemlock and foxgloves are poisonous. The gift of the fly agaric toadstool is a trip into prolonged psychosis. Does that mean they have no value? Personally, I think love of nature necessitates embracing its uglier, vicious manifestations, but I am not sure Kimmerer would agree.

The book is at its best when it is talking about other people. The case studies of indigenous communities working to restore their homelands, often in the face of stiff opposition, are inspiring. Less so, the stories of Kimmerer and her daughters living the old ways on their family homestead. The image of a mother determinedly restoring a pond for her daughters to swim in is uplifting, and Kimmerer captures the marvellous joy of drinking maple sap straight from the trees, but the repetition and floral language reduces what is beautiful and meaningful about these maternal stories to mawkish smothering. Overall, I feel this book has heart and expresses some excellent ideas, but I think the unnecessary length condemns it to saccharine excess.

Even a wounded world is feeding us. Even a wounded world holds us, giving us moments of wonder and joy. I choose joy over despair. Not because I have my head in the sand, but because joy is what the earth gives me daily and I must return the gift.