Darkness Visible

The Illness That Has No Name

Styron begins Darkness Visible with an argument about language. The word “depression,” he writes, is so inadequate to the illness it names — so bland, so clinical, so suggestive of mere low spirits — that it contributes to the stigma and misunderstanding that make the illness harder to treat. He proposes, half-seriously, that we call it “brainstorm” instead: something that conveys the violent, electric, all-encompassing nature of the experience. The suggestion is not adopted, but the argument is correct, and it frames everything that follows.

Styron experienced a severe depressive episode in 1985, at the age of sixty, triggered in part by his discontinuation of alcohol (which he had used, without knowing it, as self-medication for decades). The episode brought him to the edge of suicide — he came within hours of acting on the impulse — and ended in voluntary hospitalization, from which he recovered. He wrote the first version of this account as a lecture in 1989 and expanded it slightly for book publication the following year.

What the Illness Is Like

The value of Darkness Visible is its precision about what severe clinical depression actually is, as opposed to what the word suggests. Styron describes it as a physical presence — a “brainstorm” that is experienced in the body as a crushing, suffocating weight, not metaphorically but literally. The inability to concentrate, the inability to take pleasure in anything, the distortion of time (each hour feels like days), the specific quality of self-loathing that is different from ordinary guilt — he renders all of this with the novelist’s attention to sensory and psychological accuracy.

The famous passage describing his misery at a Paris ceremony where he was receiving a prize — the elaborate performance of public gratitude while experiencing internal annihilation — has become the canonical literary description of high-functioning severe depression: the gap between appearance and interior experience so absolute that the person experiencing it cannot imagine anyone around them would believe it if told.

The Paris Ceremony and the Hospital

Styron’s account of his near-suicide is handled with unusual clarity. He had decided to kill himself, had written a note, had begun to destroy his diary, when he heard on the television a passage of music from a Brahms choir — music he associated with his dead mother — and the emotional blow of that association broke through the deadened state he had been in and allowed him to wake his wife. He entered hospital the following day.

The hospitalization, he insists, saved his life and should not carry the stigma it does. The removal of the immediate decisions — he did not have to choose what to eat, when to wake, what obligations to meet — created the conditions for recovery that his home environment could not provide. His recovery was slow but complete, and the memoir ends with a statement about the curability of the illness that functions as a message to those currently suffering it: this ends. It does not feel like it ends, but it ends.

Our rating: 4.6/5 — The definitive literary account of clinical depression — precise, unsentimental, and practically important for anyone who has experienced the illness or loves someone who has.