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I have read countless memoirs about the books that changed a reader’s life for the better. They are fun to read but, on the whole, predictable. They’re comforting and easy to connect with, and they invite you to reflect on the books that made you happy as a child or brought you the strength to get through tough situations.
Bibliophobia by Sarah Chihaya is not meant to be read for comfort. If you relate to the experiences shared, they may bring to mind some of your heaviest moments. And, unlike any literary memoir I’ve come across, it challenges the assumption that books always make you or your life better. Its candor was refreshing and, even when it was painful to admit, deeply relatable.
As she seeks treatment for depression and obsessive-compulsive disorder, Chihaya reflects on her complicated—and sometimes unhealthy—relationship with books. As an Ivy League professor, she had structured her professional and personal life around them. In some ways, they defined her; without them, she had to rebuild her identity.
Most of the books that shaped Chihaya’s life are what she calls “Life Ruiners.” She does not believe that books are meant to edify, that they make you more empathetic or less lonely just by having read them. Her Life Ruiners—The Bluest Eye, Possession, Anne of Green Gables, and others—revealed uncomfortable truths about herself and the world around her. Though they often consumed her, they didn’t fill the emptiness or alienation within, nor did they let her escape from her pain.
As an autistic reader, I desperately cling to books for guidance. I want to believe that through them, I can make sense of the world. Like if I just read the right ones, they will create meaning out of what seems like (and may well be) randomness and cruelty. For that reason, Bibliophobia made me uncomfortable. It caused me to reflect on whether the books I love actually help me or if they just numb the pain. These are not easy revelations, but they are valuable and—perhaps more important—honest.
