One of my favourite passages from any novel is the conversation at the climax of The Catcher in the Rye, in which a slightly sloshed Mr Antolini (an English teacher) offers encouragement and wisdom to the restless and alienated protagonist. In part:

And I hate to tell you, but I think that once you have a fair idea where you want to go, your first move will be to apply yourself in school. You’ll have to. […] Among other things, you’ll find that you’re not the first person who was ever confused and frightened and even sickened by human behaviour. You’re by no means alone on that score, you’ll be excited and stimulated to know. Many, many men have been just as troubled morally and spiritually as you are right now. Happily, some of them kept records of their troubles. You’ll learn from them—if you want to. […] And it isn’t education. It’s history. It’s poetry.”

(I’ve got that last bit tattooed on my bicep!)

Part of what makes this such a powerful novel is that, even today, it gives the restless and alienated people among us a place to start looking for comfort and encouragement themselves.

Some recent examples from my own reading that I’ve found very powerful:

Abraham Lincoln’s depression. This was obvious to everyone in Lincoln’s personal and professional life. He was a gloomy guy. And as Joshua Wolf Shenk puts it: “Even when he began to do the work for which he’s remembered, and took evident satisfaction in finding a great cause to which to apply his considerable talent, he continued to suffer.” Shenk also argues that the melancholy “bears fruit” when Lincoln begins fighting against the extension of slavery—this is not a cure, but a meaningful purpose, in the sense advocated for by Victor Frankl. The suffering doesn’t go away, but Lincoln nevertheless responds by looking for meaning. And look what this guy ended up achieving!

Thomas Merton’s “frantic escapism”. Merton, the famous monk and writer who remains a shining example of somebody living the spiritual life, suffered from a strong wish to be somewhere else. Even while living in a monastery, under a patient superior who made concessions to these desires, Merton would indulge in unrealistic fantasies of the peace and tranquility that he would find, if only he could move to a different monastery! Merton was told in a letter: “Your vocation is to have no solution, and then keep on going.” Donald Grayson interprets this “frantic escapism” in the framework of accidia, a well-known mental state afflicting many monks throughout history. To me, Merton’s struggles are also a powerful example of a genuinely remarkable spiritual writer and monastic who nevertheless faced, in my uninformed opinion, an almost constant existential crisis.

Florence Nightingale’s illness and permanent disability. But even in her sick bed she continued to conduct research, writing, and lobbying as part of her—very successful—mission to get the government to reform hospitals and the nursing profession. Calling herself a “prisoner to my bed”, she responded by being selective—she would use her best hours for the most impactful work and would keep a limit on social visitors. Her reforms were, and continue to be, astonishingly impactful at saving lives around the world, and she did all this by responding wisely to her physical limitations. The encouragement that this offers people, like myself, who live with physical limitations should be obvious.

Elizabeth, the mother of the important biblical figure John the Baptist, is the subject of this very moving passage in the non-canonical Protoevangelium of James. The context is that the king Herod, perhaps anxious about a threat to his power, orders the execution of all male infants around Bethlehem. (This event is also depicted, with different details, in the canonical Gospel of Matthew. Mercifully, this doesn’t seem to be an actual historical event.)

The passage (translation by Shelly Matthews):

And when Elizabeth heard that John was being sought, she took him and headed for the hills. And she looked around to find where she could hide him, but there was not any good place. Then, as Elizabeth sighed, she said with a loud voice, “Mountain of God, take me, a mother with her child.” For Elizabeth was too afraid to go up higher. And at once, the mountain split open and received her. And there was light shining through the mountain to her. For an angel of the Lord was with them, guarding them.

What a beautiful and touching description of a woman doing everything she can to protect the infant under her care. This passage also speaks to the despair that many of us feel when people in power abuse their authority to hurt others. (There is even a recent bible study on this story, aimed at trans and queer people, here.)

The Buddha, according to legend, was inspired to help overcome suffering in part by an experience he had as a child. As described by Wikipedia: “During the festival, the young prince noticed various sights of suffering, such as laboring men and oxen, and worms and insects being exposed by the ploughing and eaten by birds.” You can imagine this sensitive and compassionate kid feeling disturbed and sad by all of this suffering in the world. This resonates with me particularly because of the compassion shown for worms and insects, who are often left out of the story but who are at the centre of the Buddha’s concerns here.

Sources:

  • Lincoln’s Melancholy: How Depression Challenged a President and Fueled His Greatness (Joshua Wolf Shenk)
  • Thomas Merton and the Noonday Demon: The Camaldoli Correspondence (Donald Grayson)
  • Florence Nightingale at First Hand: Vision, Power, Legacy (Lynn McDonald)
  • Old Path White Clouds (Thich Nhat Hanh)