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Are You Serious, Matt?

Could it be true that clinical depression arises from bad choices and disappointments; or is it more likely the other way round? Or is it the case that depression is a consequence of environment, one’s less than sane immediate family perhaps; or possibly genetics, an historical aberration passed down from family far distant in space and time? Is the world an objectively depressing place; or made so by our attitude towards it? The philosopher Schopenhauer thought depression was an heroic human condition and promoted it by writing about it; Freud thought it was an illness and tried to cure it by talking about it.

Haig thinks depression has something to do with regrets, that is, thoughts about what might have been if we had done things differently. And perhaps he has a point. In his view, regrets occur because of alternative histories we fabricate for ourselves in which disappointment with one’s lot is reduced or eliminated because life would be more fulfilling/successful/happy than the life one actually has. Depression, in other words, is a literary phenomenon. It’s a result of the what-if stories. Imaginative, articulate people, therefore, would be particularly susceptible to the condition. There is in fact substantial anecdotal evidence that this might be so (see, for example, /review/show...)

Based on this essentially linguistic theory of depression, Haig has a suggestion for therapy. At this point he crosses the line from playful fictional speculation to a less than savoury quackery worthy of Ayn Rand and Tim LaHaye. Haig thinks that some down-to-earth horror stories are just the thing to augment the happily-ever-after alternatives in our heads. Re-write the script, he implies, picking up all the tiny contra-indications of bliss because “undoing regrets was really a way of making wishes come true.�� Or just remember that people, jobs, relationships, and desires change. Perhaps what was the case about these things when the alternative history was written hadn’t persisted. Or the outcomes remain the same despite different choices. Haig’s point, I suppose, is that things could be worse; that maybe Leibniz had it right: this world could be the best of all possible worlds. Disappointment with one’s regrets as a cure for regrets, and therefore a therapy for disabling, suicidal depression?

Things could be worse!? That’s your therapeutic message? Are you serious, Matt?

Haig even makes a pitch for a sort of group therapy in which those formulating alternatives to the alternatives get together for solace and encouragement. And of course he feels compelled to bring in quantum mechanics to bolster the non-literary reality of simultaneous lives - a cliché I was mightily hoping he might avoid. And the allusion to YHWH as the master of ceremonies (very Leibnizian), in the guise of a benevolent librarian, keeping all the disparate quantum selves in line is pretty cheesy. Ultimately Haig opts for the cheesiest of all criterion for the story one must have about one’s life: authenticity, we must be our realest, bestest, truest self. “Aim to be the truest version of you,�� the godly librarian suggests, as if a depressive has a choice in the matter. I think Haig may have been to one too many EST seminars, or at least spent too much time in Southern California reading Heidegger on the beach.

Of course in creating these new personal stories another issue eventually arises if one’s authentic self is the depressed wreck one started with. Then “It is quite a revelation to discover that the place you wanted to escape to is the exact same place you escaped from,�� says Haig’s protagonist, brought back from the brink of suicidal death. But the important point, according to Haig, is “You just had to never give up on the idea that there would be a life somewhere that could be enjoyed.�� Can one help thinking of Eric Idle’s magnificent rendition of ‘Always Look On The Bright Side Of Life�� in the Life Of Brian? Did I mention cheesy.

I think it clear that The Midnight Library is a grave insult to those suffering from depression. It is a facile, trivial, misdirected, and (did I mention?) cheesy book. Am I entirely off-base in thinking Haig wrote it as a feel-good piece for those who just need a little pat on the back for their recovery from a bout of the blues, or a failed love affair? If not, you’re a louse, Matt.