Bibliotherapy: 14 books that will change your life

Dozens of posters featuring wisdom from some of literature’s sagest voices were strung up around my former university’s English building, but one of them in particular has always stayed with me. “You think your pain and your heartbreak are unprecedented in the history of the world, but then you read,” the quote read. “It was Dostoevsky and Dickens who taught me that the things that tormented me most were the very things that connected me with all the people who were alive, or who ever had been alive.”

The great James Baldwin said these words during an interview back in 1963, but they remain – and will likely always remain – deeply resonant. Books have a unique ability to make us feel connected, understood, and seen, and often reading can have a powerful therapeutic effect. Some therapists are even beginning to prescribe books to their clients in an attempt to help them unpack their emotions – a practice known as bibliotherapy.

If you’re hoping to turn to the written word for some solace or guidance, keep reading. Below, the Dazed team share the books that lifted them out of a rough patch, made them feel less alone, or changed their outlook on life for the better.

PURE COLOUR, SHEILA HETI

When my dad passed in 2020, the world was so full of grief that it took me a while to figure out how mine sat within it. Friends were losing jobs and loved ones left and right, and pandemic restrictions meant I couldn’t be with my family in New Zealand. I didn’t want to bother anyone, but I felt alone. Pure Colour helped me to feel part of a grieving collective. In it, Heti jots down many of the difficult and unspoken elements of grief that felt true to me in a way that isn’t corny or expected. Often, she poses these big ideas as questions, making it feel like you’re figuring out the purpose of life and loss together. While it’s not a book I would usually reach for (it’s not plot or character-driven, more vague and philosophical), there are a couple of pages that I still return to today – especially when I’m in need of a reminder to turn the screen off, take my day-to-day stressors less seriously and hold my loved ones close. (LP)

NORMAL PEOPLE, SALLY ROONEY

Normal People made me do something I can usually only do with shrooms or therapy: cry. Not like the ‘despairing-at-the-state-of-my-life’ sort of cry. They were more like the beautiful ‘I’m-having-a human-experience’ type of tears. It’s obviously brilliantly written – if not a bit of a meme at this point – but I think what was so cathartic about reading this over Christmas was how it was relatable to the point of inviting reflection. As small misunderstandings snowballed into greater and greater heartbreak, I found myself unpacking memories I hadn’t recalled in years. I realised I have a bit of a Marianne-shaped hole in my heart myself, and I’m grateful for it. (SPM)

WAR AND PEACE, LEO TOLSTOY

I’m sorry, I know this sounds beyond pretentious but hear me out. Obviously anxiety and depression can make you feel very isolated; like you’re the first and only person in the world who feels like this. But War and Peace is full of characters feeling anxious and depressed and I found following their journeys, in a book written over 150 years ago, set against the backdrop of the Napoleonic wars, very comforting.

One of the characters, Pierre, particularly struggles with depression. “What’s bad and what’s good? What should we love and what should we hate? What is life for, and what am I? What is life? What is death? What kind of force is it that directs everything?” He asks at one point. “And there were no answers to any of these questions,” the book goes on, “except one illogical response that didn’t answer any of them: And that response was: ‘You’re going to die, and it will be over and done with…’ But dying was horrible too.”

Call me mad, but reading a fictional 19th-century Russian artistocrat articulating how I was feeling was quite a game-changer. (TS)

THE IDIOT AND EITHER/OR, ELIF BATUMAN

Trying to pursue love can make me feel a bit crazy sometimes. I seem to do everything wrong – be too honest, get carried away, lead with my heart and never my head. Sometimes I probably do need someone to smack me and tell me to stop fawning over someone who doesn’t care if I live or die. But sometimes I just need to be told that I’m not a freak of nature for acting like this – and reading Elif Batuman’s novel The Idiot and its sequel Either/Or did just that. Harvard student Selin is the eponymous idiot, a young woman with everything going for her who chooses to spend her time yearning after the affections of an older, avoidant, Hungarian mathematics student. Selin is no role model, don’t get me wrong – and neither The Idiot or Either/Or celebrate derailing your life for the sake of a man (the opposite, if anything). But both novels were a startlingly resonant wake-up call for me – if your type is ‘emotionally unavailable men’ then perhaps they’ll strike a chord with you too. (SS)

NERVOUS CONDITIONS, TSITSI DANGAREMBGA

Set in Southern Rhodesia (now Zimbabwe) during the 1960s and 70s, Tsitsi Dangarembga’s Nervous Conditions centres around 14-year-old Tambu. In order to attend the local missionary school, Tambu moves in with her wealthy aunt and uncle and subsequently grows close with her cousin Nyasha. Nyasha is fiery and frequently butts heads with her father – brought up in England, she is frequently scolded for being “loose” and too Westernised – but underneath all her bravado, Nyasha is desperate to make sense of her own identity. Is she Shona? English? Something else entirely – a hybrid? At the same time she yearns for a better relationship with her father: “Sometimes I look at things from his point of view […] But then I start thinking that he ought to look at things from my point of view and be considerate and patient with me, so I start fighting back and off we go again,” she says to Tambu in one particularly poignant moment. A must-read for anyone who was brought up straddling different cultures – but, fair warning, be prepared to cry. (SS)

THE NEAPOLITAN NOVELS, ELENA FERRANTE

I don‘t tend to revisit novels I’ve already read. We’re on this earth for a limited amount of time and there are only so many we can realistically get through. But every few years, I will pull one of Elena Ferrante’s Neapolitan Novels from my bookshelf. I’ve gone through so many copies: the pages have either fallen out, or I’ve just forced too many of them on disinterested friends (Oh did you not like it?? Try AGAIN!). 

The novels trace the lifelong friendship between Lila Cerullo and protagonist Elena Greco, beginning with their childhood in an impoverished Naples neighbourhood. It is the kind of rare, invigorating connection that “ignites your brain”: they are loving and fiercely loyal to each other, but also jealous, threatened and immiserated. Ferrante captures the unspoken tensions that underlie these kinds of friendships, and we are confronted with Greco’s inferiority complex – about her class, intelligence and worthiness – in unflinching detail. On a micro level, you will find something in these books for whatever stage of life you’re at, whether you’re falling in love, grieving a loved one, going through a divorce, stifled by parenthood, or just needlessly blowing up your life (special mention to Nino Sarratore… the greatest, most soulless fuckboy ever written, the unworthy love object of both women and a lesson in himself). 

But it’s crucially not just about the micro: set against the backdrop of late 20th century Italy, we witness seismic political shifts – the rise of fascism, the plague of misogyny, the “malevolence” of inequality, and the growing polarisation of left and right – that feel all too familiar now. There are vital warnings too about romanticism, and the dangers that come with idealising a person, lover, social status or political movement. But Ferrante never casts judgment. The beauty of these novels lies in the way they shun simplification, and also in how they articulate the intangible aches of the human experience. “In the fairy tales one does as one wants, and in reality one does what one can.” (DS)

ABOLISH THE FAMILY, SOPHIE LEWIS 

I read Abolish the Family because the title intrigued me. How can you abolish a structure you’re supposed to love more than anything? A structure you’ve likely never questioned in your life, despite feeling consistently let down by it? I read it out of curiosity but also as a way to understand my own family better. And let me tell you – it’s a life-changing read. Lewis is a phenomenal writer and thinker, highlighting how motherhood often becomes a cage for women and how parents are expected to give up their entire lives for their children (because society dictates it as such). This often results in resentment towards their children when they fail to act, behave, or become what their parents desire. In many ways, parents believe they are owed this, as if their children’s achievements are the only thing to justify the sacrifices they’ve made. The book provides a powerful critique of how the nuclear family has failed us, and continues to fail us, and argues that all of us, whether mother, father, or child, are deserving of more care. (HJ)

HOLD STILL: A MEMOIR WITH PHOTOGRAPHS, SALLY MANN

There are so many books and writings that I reach for when I’m feeling down or in need of comfort, everything from nostalgic childhood favourites (Noel Streatfeild’s Ballet Shoes) to theoretical essays (Adrienne Rich’s “Vesuvius at Home: The Power of Emily Dickinson”, don’t ask me why) to Joan Didion, whose writing is so good that you can’t help but feel better. But if I had to choose one I’d choose Sally Mann’s memoir, Hold Still.

I’ve loved Mann’s photography since the first time I saw one of her images, so when the book came out in 2015 I knew I had to read it. What I didn’t know was how wonderful and wise a writer she would turn out to be. Tracing Mann’s family’s past, her own life, and the landscape and troubled history of the American South where she was born, raised and remained, the book is about how we are made, for better and worse, by people and place, and how we turn these experiences into art. I’m struggling to articulate why this book is so special, and so special to me (the “if I loved you less, I might be able to talk about it more” syndrome is, unfortunately, one I’m afflicted with), but it’s one of my favourite books of all time and I would strongly recommend it. (AP)

MATING IN CAPTIVITY: HOW TO KEEP DESIRE AND PASSION ALIVE IN A LONG-TERM RELATIONSHIPS, ESTHER PEREL

Hayley Nahman recommended Mating in Captivity: How to Keep Desire and Passion Alive in Long-Term Relationships in her newsletter Maybe Baby. She discussed it specifically in relation to romantic relationships and the importance of maintaining mystery and space. I found this book incredibly enlightening for my own relationship, particularly in recognising that sometimes, the ways we try to maintain intimacy with our partners is simply through surveilling them. For instance, constantly asking your partner what they’ve been doing all day isn’t fostering closeness – you’re just acting like a cop! Beyond that, Perel’s insights on parenthood are some of the strongest parts of the book. One of my favourite quotes is: “In order to feel safe, kids need to know that there are limits to their power, and to what is surreptitiously asked of them. They need us to have our own loving relationships in whatever form they take.” (HJ)

FEMINISM IS FOR EVERYBODY, BELL HOOKS

I’ve read Feminism is for Everybody twice; once on my own and a second time during my master’s. I know people can feel conflicted about bell hooks’ writing, but whether you agree or disagree with her, she always pushes us to think further. Feminism is a life-saving, revolutionary movement that many people hate. hooks’ book is an incredible introduction to feminism while also serving as an affirming read for feminist advocates who want to navigate romantic relationships with men. One of the best chapters is “To Love Again: The Heart of Feminism”, which starts with this killer opening: “If women and men want to know love, we have to yearn for feminism. For without feminist thinking and practice we lack the foundations to create loving bonds.” This book always lifts my spirits. It makes me feel so hopeful. I love feminism! (HJ)

RADICAL INTIMACY, SOPHIE K ROSA

I read Radical Intimacy after my friend Alex died. I was struggling to find books that explicitly addressed grief in a way that resonated with my experience – my friend had died, and yet the world just kept turning. I had read The Year of Magical Thinking by Joan Didion, which helped me understand that grief had completely broken my brain. But months after Alex’s death, I needed more. Rosa writes about alternative ways to live, urging us to use our radical imagination to discover new forms of intimacy. She writes with clarity and strength about how capitalist systems are failing us, the death economy, the lack of resources to care for those who are grieving, friendship, and so much more. When I left university, I struggled deeply with the 9-to-5 structure of work. Older people assured me I’d get used to it over time. But Rosa challenges us to never get used to it and to resist it instead, because it really does make us cold, cruel and uncaring (especially when it comes to unproductive moments of our lives such as times of grief) and I never want to be that way. (HJ)

AREN’T YOU BOJACK HORSEMAN? CRITICAL ESSAYS ON THE NETFLIX SERIES, HARRIET EH EARLE 

This one is a bit unconventional as it is a collection of academic essays, but Aren’t You Bojack Horseman? Critical Essays on the Netflix Series by Harriet EH Earle is surprisingly healing. The book delves into Raphael Bob-Waksberg’s critically acclaimed and award-winning Netflix show Bojack Horseman, an adult animated tragicomedy following an anthropomorphic, self-destructive celebrity horse. Bojack Horseman is a deeply upsetting and, at times, painfully relatable show. Through its explorations of family abuse and trauma, addiction, death, mental illness, and sexual abuse, it paints the portrait of a deeply flawed individual. Sometimes you see yourself in Bojack; sometimes you don’t. You want so desperately for him to get better, yet he never seems to. The essays take a nuanced look at these themes, particularly the abuse Bojack endured at the hands of his parents and the intergenerational trauma they also suffered. But they carefully and persuasively explore the idea that one can be both a victim and an abuser, without excusing harmful behaviour. Sometimes, we learn the most about ourselves as human beings through anthropomorphic animals. (HJ)

RAVING, MCKENZIE WARK

As someone who notoriously doesn’t read, I wasn’t expecting a book to so easily shift the way I interact with a space. But reading Raving by McKenzie Wark before a weekend spent in an Amsterdam club did just that.

Part autofiction, part ethnography, Wark uses New York’s underground queer and trans rave scene as a case study for the structures that exist on the dancefloor. Through anecdotes and analysis, the book breaks down the radical transformation of gender, bodies, and even time that unfolds universally beneath sweaty ceilings. At a time when both the dancefloor and queer rights are eroding before us, this book is a reminder of what can still be built, even as the ground beneath us collapses. Also, there was something wild about seeing some of my favourite DJs mentioned in a book – shoutout Goth Jafar. (TM)

SULA, TONI MORRISON

I first read Toni Morrison’s work when I was far too young to truly understand it. All I knew was that her words left me with such a gut-wrenching, visceral feeling and it ultimately helped me understand literature’s purpose in many of our lives. As I have grown up, I have found myself returning time and time again to her words for comfort.

Her second novel Sula is one of those books I seem to get different things from at different points of my life. Released three years after The Bluest Eye, it is a story that follows two childhood best friends Nel and Sula as they navigate growing up and become adult women with completely different lifestyles. Throughout the novel, Morrison deals with themes of motherhood, friendships between women, guilt, betrayal, infidelity and the structural racism predominately Black neighbourhoods face. Similar to her other work, Morrison does not shy away from writing about uncomfortable moments, and I know people who have struggled with not getting the happy ending they were after. But for me, being confronted with such raw truth on a page is what I thank Morrison the most for. There’s a quote in it I return to a lot. When Nel questions how lonely unmarried life is Sula responds: “My lonely is mine. Now your lonely is somebody else’s. Made by somebody else and handed to you. Ain’t that something? A secondhand lonely.” In my most isolated moments, I think about it. As a chronically single person who deep down still hopes the type of love I want exists, I often ask myself if it is better to be lonely by yourself or have a hidden internalised loneliness with another person. I’m still not sure, but until I figure out the answer to that question I use those words as my reassurance. (HD)