William StyronRecensioner

Written in 1967 this book was and remains controversial. I found the book very well-written, timely and thought provoking.

A well known book in the literature of mental illness, when it came across my desk I decided to give it a read. A slim book, it is a one-sitting or one-day read. Styron, I found, does indeed give an account that will ring familiar to many people.

I felt myself entering the afternoon shadows with their encroaching anxiety and dread... my brain had begun to endure its familiar siege: panic and dislocation, and a sense that my thought processes were being engulfed by a toxic and unnameable tide that obliterated any enjoyable response to the living world.

And then later:

I had now reached that phase of the disorder where all sense of hope had vanished, along with the idea of a futurity; my brain, in thrall to its outlaw hormones, had become less an organ of thought than an instrument registering, minute by minute, varying degrees of its own suffering.

How much of this will be truly comprehensible to people who have never experienced it, I don't know, because as he states several times it seems impossible to describe it to someone without that direct experience. But it is a valiant attempt. He also emphasizes that there is no one approach to recovery that works for everyone. Unfortunately for Styron he was one of those for whom no medications, each with their 4-6 week waiting periods before an effect can be felt, worked, and he came perilously close to suicide before checking himself into a hospital, which for him proved the salvation.

The book seems useful for those in the midst of the "madness", offering proof that the veil will eventually lift, and for those who want to understand it. For those who have already passed through and emerged, it must be similar to how I imagine a recovering alcoholic might feel about reading an account of someone else's drinking problem: a personal sense of understanding, and an uncomfortable dread of slipping back there.

A must read. Styron would not be able to publish this today, not without the help of James Baldwin and he's no longer with us.

Second book this year about depression - this was certainly the better one. I’d never read anything by Styron before. What you’ll find in this book is as quintessential of a nonfiction, essay style as you’ll find anywhere; this seems like the kind of book English professors would give their students as an example of exquisite prose, if it weren’t for the subject matter. That might sound like a knock, but it’s not - Styron was probably (I’m no English professor after all) instrumental in inventing the form, seeing his role in the seething cauldron of American letters in the mid-20th century.

I guess it’s hard to write a book on depression, at least when it’s set as the headline topic. Styron explicitly lays out that the disease is highly idiopathic, and that his experience should not be taken as typical, despite the many traits it had it common with medical descriptions of depression. He also highlights the struggle artists have always had in conveying what their depression feels like, how words fail at getting to the heart of the sensation. However what we have here is another attempt, and I can’t say I found it entirely successful. To confront melancholy in the modern age is to be institutionalized to a certain degree - we are plied with drugs, ads for online therapy, self-help books of every stripe. All of this has of course, gotten worse since this book was written. These kinds of treatments are anathema to the language of art and poetry, and though Styron gives it his best shot, this book is at the end of the day, a very well written testimony of treatment, and does little for me to illuminate the nature of the depressive and depression itself. I found that I think I have a different view of depression than Styron puts forth here, so concerned as he is with depression as a diagnosis - in my experience as a fellow traveler and friend and family of many more, depression can be more viewed as a facet of personality that some people are susceptible to. Styron himself points out that creative types are more prone to depression, it may just be that depressive types are more prone to creativity. The same sensitivity that pushes one to make art; or try to make the world better, or question why life is worth living, this is the same sensitivity that when turned against itself can take you far down dark paths.

My favorite part of this book is the wide reading that Styron puts on display and his perceptive observations on depression in literature. Many of the works that I count among my favorites are engaged with the same questions the depressive asks themselves, and many are mentioned in this book.

In 2023, I find this book feels a bit outdated. However, I have no doubt that at the time of publishing, Darkness Visible was probably ground breaking.

As someone who studies trauma and psychology in literature, I think this book is crucial and certainly an important read for the academics.

I really enjoy the topics that Styron brings up.

I read this as part of my illegal books 2023 and forgot to post it in Feb.

This is a bullshit book. If you've only seen the movie, stick with that. I got nearly half-way through the book, and I know more about the main character's penis than I do about Sophie. This wasn't an illegal book because it was about Nazis. It was an illegal book because the main character goes on and on and on about masturbating while thinking about Sophie. Before he meets her. He watches her from his window. And masturbates. It's creepy. I do not care that it is a classic. The protagonist is a dirty creep.

Why are men like Styron praised for writing books like this? Ask yourself this question objectively.

This is one of those books Twain was referring to when he quipped:
“′Classic′ – a book which people praise and don't read.”

I waded through Styron's stereotypical prose about his Black caricatures because of my interest in the fully developed white characters. The fried chicken and watermelon meal at the religious revival in the last chapter knocked a star from my rating.

I’ve often considered depression a disease that inflicts an inability for people to imagine the future. Styron himself fell victim to a depression which crippled him, a writer, of his imagination to the point that he was only able to contemplate suicide. The amazing thing about this book is that he’s able to take that loss and turn it into an impactful memoir that revisits the ins and outs of his affliction so well. The anecdotes and asides do a great job at translating in layman terms what he went through. The allegories wonderfully describe the personal, societal, and physical tolls—such as calling the body aches a warmth that can’t be subdued via a breeze. He also presents information well; including the arguments concerning psychiatric and pharmaceutical solutions to depression—which still hold up even though the book was written in 1990. It’s brief, has a wonderful conversational tone, and ends with a great degree of cautious optimism. Highly recommended.

I saw the movie Sophie’s Choice many years ago, and like most people, was deeply moved and disturbed by the experience. I have never watched it again, but have seen several discussions of the movie recently, leading me to realize that I had never read the book, which is somewhat unusual. So, I elected to remedy the situation.

I do not recall the details of the movie in enough specificity to say whether the movie accurately tracks with the book, but I’ve never heard otherwise, so will assume that it does. I do not remember most of the movie other than the “choice” and reading the book did not jog my memory in that regard.

I can only say that the book is extremely well written and I found it captivating. I was not prepared for the extremely sexually charged content, but was certainly not in any way put off by it. It could be an issue for some readers, but given the subject matter, if you can wade through Auschwitz, you can probably make it through a little (well, really a lot) of sex.

If you are getting ready to purchase this book, you have likely seen the movie, or at least are familiar with its subject matter. If not, be aware that it is perhaps the most disturbing account, though fictional, of events occurring during the Holocaust. And while fictional, many of the events likely occurred dozens, if not hundreds of times every day. It should be an emotional experience to read this book. If it is not, you have issues that need to be addressed.½

I am still suspect of Pulitzer Prize winning books, even those predating the '90s, and find it interesting that my copy of The Confessions of Nat Turner, first printed fifteen years after winning the award, bears no indication of its achievement. I suspect this is due to the subsequent controversy arising from a white man imagining what a slave would think and feel. Personally, I think fiction is doomed if we continue down the path of restricting authors to writing characters matching their personal backgrounds.

The Confessions of Nat Turner is William Styron's first-person narrative of the events surrounding a short-lived slave rebellion, told by the man who led it. In spite of the controversy the book caused, I found it a mostly believable depiction of what might have led to the insurrection. Nat—whose assigned surname is actually that of his owner—is an intelligent, mostly sympathetic character whose major character flaws Styron invented. There is nothing in the historical record documenting the relationships he had with any of the victims, particularly his obsession for a white woman who is, according to the real confession, the only person he personally murdered. There are also several unnecessary (ill-considered?) scenes whose homoerotic undertones and lack of clarity regarding who was doing what to whom work against what the novel was attempting to achieve. I also found the practice of writing speech in dialect distracting, but that was more prevalent (less objectionable?) when the novel was written.

The Confessions of Nat Turner is not of the same quality as Sophie's Choice, perhaps because it is told from the perspective of the main actor rather than by an observer, adding an (intentional?) element of unreliability to the novel's events rather than subjecting them to simple misinterpretation. Given the paucity of historical documents about both the events and the people involved (including significant discrepancies in the number of people murdered), Styron wrote a book worthy of reading. Buy a copy with his afterword, where he elaborates on the objections to his inventions and explains some of the choices he made as an author.

I've been through this book three times over a 15 year span, divided by five year intervals. As best as I can remember, I was either going into or coming out of a deep depression. I don't think I could have read it while I was in the middle of it. Actually, I can't read anything in the midst of such a madness. And, madness, although I hate the term, is exactly what it is for me. All I know is that I loved it. Loved him for sharing this deeply, personal thing. Loved the feeling that I wasn't alone.

This is one of those stories that sets up shop in your mind and comes out when your own life experience rubs up in even the smallest way against the experiences of the characters.

The stigma attached to mental illness has almost gone full-circle since Styron's experience with it in the 80s...these days, talking about it is so readily accepted that it seems embarrassingly hipster to grapple with Depression.

Still, the quest continues for adequate language to describe what it is like. I felt some familiarity with what he described...most particularly, the odd sensation of simultaneously observing and even narrating the effects of the descending malaise, and recognizing our own powerlessness to control it, all while in the midst of experiencing the downward spiral and feeling it seize control over our thoughts, words, and actions.

This memoir as a whole didn't resonate with me as much as May Sarton's Journal of Solitude, but I nonetheless recommend it to those seeking comfort in kinship, or anyone trying to understand what a loved one may be experiencing when in the grip of Depression.

This is an excellent book written about the author's own horrendous experience with depression, and his approach to but withdrawal from suicide. He knew of which he wrote, and he expressed it very well.

The story of Sophie, a holocaust survivor who has made her way to Brooklyn, NY. A complicated person in a relationship with Nathan who has his own issues. The story is told by Stingo who tells us the story of Sophie and Nathan. Styron uses a lot of archaic words that I needed to have a dictionary in order to look up these words.

Interesting inside view of depression. I wonder if diet had an effect on all of this, something I think is often overlooked.

Short but thought provoking. Hopefully, psychiatry has improved.

harrowing

I bought this at least partly because I am a big fan of Styron. I have experienced depression, Albeit never severe.

Sophie es una muchacha polaca, dulce y de pálida hermosura que vive en una casa de huéspedes del Brooklyn de los años cuarenta junto a Nathan, un joven judío obsesionado por el pasado, y Stingo, el tercero en discordia, un joven procedente del sur que llega convencido de que será un escritor de éxito. Tres personalidades que se relacionarán íntimamente en un ambiente en apariencia alegre y desenfadado después de la guerra que ha azotado al mundo durante seis años.

Short, harrowing account of an episode of severe depression. Gave me a glimpse of the profound pain that is suffered and made more forgiving of some suicides. It is really well written.

Good historical novel of a slave who led a revolt against their masters in the early 1800s in Virginia. Makes you think about slavery and what it does to people. I listened to it as an audiobook.

A Escolha de Sofia é um best-seller bom, absorvente e comovente, que comprime um triângulo de personagens em um sério, embora angustiante, estudo-jornada pelos cantos mais escuros e hediondos do século XX. Marcam-no uma abordagem compassiva e até um pouco de otimismo, no final. O resultado é uma obra respeitável, claustrofóbica e astuta que evoca o inferno no genocídio de Auschwitz e o subsequente purgatorio, já na terra de liberdade (Nova York). A escolha-título encerra o dogma de Sartre, "O inferno são os outros¨, a, quela frase da peça Huis Clos que, muitas vezes é entendida como uma simples modulação da igualmente famosa frase de Hobbes: “O homem é um lobo para o homem.¨ A escolha do titulo retrata, pois, um drama dentro da consciência, pelo qual Sofia se descobre exposta à arbitrariedade de Satã. No inferno de Sofia, a tortura não é física, mas sim mental: ela jamais poderá escapar do ¨julgamento¨ satânico.½

I stumbled on this book at a local used bookstore. The title is what caught my eye--I love the Tidewater region. The three stories in this book contain some brilliant descriptions and imagery. I'm still pondering these stories and may read them again before offering a longer review.

A privileged man's experience of the onset and passage of depression. I'm not using privilege as a pejorative. Styron talks of booking tickets on Concorde for himself and his wife to rush back from Paris to the US at the onset of his depression; he is admitted to “one of the nation’s best” hospitals; his psychiatrist is "Yale-trained" – he later quietly deconstructs and demolishes him; he freely moves between homes in Connecticut and Martha’s Vineyard; and so on. This is a man who wears his privilege as a badge of honour.

So, even with immediate access to the best care money can buy – and, not insignificantly, a loving and supportive spouse throughout his ordeal – Styron finds himself on the verge of suicide; saved by hearing a Brahms rhapsody when alone in the dead of night after tearing up his attempts at writing a suicide note.

The formality of Styron's words feels odd in the circumstances, and the forced narrative (no spoiler) overdone, yet its terseness makes his nightmare vaguely accessible.

The weakest aspect is that despite repeatedly noting that the source of depression is unknowable, at the close, Styron self-diagnoses the cause and closes with a chapter of classical references. Ah, sweet privilege.