Comfort Books for Difficult Times
BY REBECCA BAYUK
Rebecca is an editor, writer, and burgeoning bibliotherapist who is partial to poetry, animals, and kitchen discos (there's an open invitation to her two cats, despite their distinct lack of enthusiasm). She is originally from Brontë country in Yorkshire, England, but now lives with her husband just outside Washington DC. You can find her over at rebeccabayuk.com or pootling around Instagram: @rebeccabayuk.
I hardly need to tell you that lately, we’ve all endured more than our fair share of difficult times.
We’ve faced a global pandemic and the job losses, isolation, and grief accompanying it. Add to that continuing struggles for racial and social justice, gender equality, and climate action, and many of us feel more overwhelmed than ever. And all that’s before we even think about our more “regular problems”: break-ups, family dynamics, chronic health conditions, which unfortunately haven’t relented amid the onslaught of global chaos.
It’s not a coincidence that so many of us have retreated into cozy sensory cocoons of our own making, swaddling ourselves in sweatpants and terry-cloth, standing in slippered feet over steaming pans of comfort foods -- mashed potatoes or jasmine rice, cinnamon pancakes or cabbage sour soup made to Grandma’s recipe. As our worlds shrink to an uncertain present, we seek to ground ourselves.
For years, reading has offered me such anchoring. From the Agatha Christie murder mysteries I’d inhale as a tween as a distraction from my parents’ divorce, to the hefty biographies I found refuge in when a university love affair was over before it even began, books have always been my staunch companion in hard times.
But when it comes to comfort, books, like foods, are not all created equal (virtuous indeed are those who reach for kale when calamity befalls). When times are tough, some books just won’t hit the spot. Moreover, our capacity for reading -- or doing much of anything other than surviving -- can vary wildly depending on exactly what we’re up against.
I recently discovered the delightful term bibliotherapy. Essentially, this refers to the act of using literature as a way of coping with life’s challenges. Acting as an amateur bibliotherapist, then, these are the prescriptions I’d offer.
Feeling despondent, hopeless, frustrated, sleepless? Seek Perspective.
Recommendations: Historical fiction/nonfiction
Navigating a tough situation can be like standing at the foot of a terrifyingly large cliff. Everywhere we look, there’s nothing but a blank expanse of the same unrelenting hurt. It can be hard to know where to even begin.
To truly assess the scale of the issue, we need to step back and look at things from a distance. Is the situation difficult? Yes. Insurmountable? Definitely not.
Historical writing -- fiction or nonfiction, modern or contemporary -- provides that sense of distance. When we travel back in time through the pages of a book, we are reminded of the countless lives that have come before ours. Of the heartbreaks, wars, tragedies, and yes, even pandemics, which precede us. There’s something intensely reassuring about this reminder that humans can and will overcome awful circumstances, given enough time. Perhaps things will not be what they once were; perhaps we will bear new scars. But time moves on, and eventually, so do we.
On my shelf: Year of Wonders by Geraldine Brooks and Pale Rider: The Spanish Flu of 1918 and how it changed the World by Laura Spinney
Feeling cynical, angry, burned-out, scared? Seek Escape.
Recommendations: Sci-Fi, Fantasy, Travel Writing, Cozy Mystery, YA/Children’s fiction
Our brains like to continually churn over problems until we are burned out, riled up, and plain exhausted.
The remedy? Escaping to a world unlike our own.
Preferably one filled with magic and wonder (to combat cynicism), different ways of living, and surprising or unfamiliar characters (as a reminder to celebrate our differences).
The goal is to leave reality behind, even just for a few minutes.
What offers escape varies from person to person. You might find it between the pages of a sci-fi novel set in space; others might prefer exploring mythical lands populated by dragons, wizards, and elves. I often return to much-loved books from my childhood or teenaged years. How about indulging in the sumptuous sensory details of a travelogue or soothing yourself with the reassuringly formulaic logic of a cozy mystery, in which there’s a satisfying answer to every question and good always wins out in the end?
On my shelf: Good Omens by Terry Prachett & Neil Gaiman and The Hollow by Agatha Christie
Feeling overwhelmed, anxious, unable to concentrate? Seek Brevity.
Recommendation: Poetry, Short stories, Essays
In very bleak moments, even the smallest of tasks can seem impossible. Reading a whole novel can feel daunting. Thus, when overwhelmed, anxious, or downright terrified, I like to reach for poetry.
Reading a poem is the work of a matter of minutes, and thus eminently doable even in the worst brain fog. But, like one of those overpriced wellness shots you find at hipster cafes, poems can invigorate, calm, or bolster, all within a few short stanzas (way better than a turmeric shot, in my opinion).
If you’ve more mental bandwidth, short stories and essays dive deeper while remaining manageable for even the most frazzled reader.
On my shelf: Wild Embers by Nikita Gill, and Wow, No Thank You by Samantha Irby
Feeling numb, despair, sadness, grief? Seek to notice.
Recommendation: Nature writing, Poetry
Sometimes no amount of distraction is ever enough. Grief, in particular, knows no bounds. It has a way of seeping into every part of our consciousness.
Though it might feel counterintuitive, leaning towards grief, inhabiting it fully, can be a way through, or at least, a way to endure.
But how do we stay inside moments so exquisitely painful? How do we bear it?
Many poets and writers have sought solace in the immediacy and continual renewal of the natural world.
In nature, there are many endings. Leaves fall and rot, creatures die, streams dry up. There are also beginnings: the green buds of spring, the first faint threads of morning light.
Without endings, there are no beginnings. So when we look to the trees or the earth or the sky, we see our losses mirrored there, but we can also see, as poet Mary Oliver describes, “The one world we all belong to/where everything/ sooner or later/is a part of everything else.”
On my shelf: Upstream by Mary Oliver and Collected Poems by Edward Thomas