So I bought this book because I truly love Kathleen Norris. We both have a thing for the Desert Fathers and medieval mysticism. We both like esoteric knowledge, like knowing what "acedia" is. Acedia is the sin that is often translated as "sloth", but it's actually quite tricky to define - it's a sort of spiritual laziness, a kind of soul-deep boredom and distaste for the world and everything in it. So that's a pretty deep concept there, and Norris is usually pretty good at exploring that stuff and connecting to stories of daily life.

But her husband died in 2003 and it really seems to have checked her ability to tell stories. This is a sort of recap of everything the medieval dudes had to say about acedia with very little to link it to contemporary experience. No stories to speak of, in other words. And - sorry, Kathleen, but it has to be said - it's kind of...boring.

But cheer up! Kathleen, I know you can do better! Next time, tell me some good stories and I'll be your biggest fan again, I promise. ( )

I have been struggling with my review of Acedia & Me: A Marriage, Monks, and a Writer’s Life for quite a long time now, not only because I find nonfiction more difficult to review in general, but also because Norris’ struggle with acedia resonated with me on a personal level and I’m having trouble articulating my thoughts about this book without rambling.

At the beginning of the book, Norris explains that:

“At its Greek root, the word acedia means the absence of care. The person afflicted by acedia refuses to care or is incapable of doing so. When life becomes too challenging and engagement with others too demanding, acedia offers a kind of spiritual morphine: you know the pain is there, yet can’t rouse yourself to give a damn. . . . Caring is not passive, but an assertion that no matter how strained and messy our relationships can be, it is worth something to be present, with others, doing our small part. Care is also required for the daily routines that acedia would have us suppress or deny as meaningless repetition or too much bother” (pp. 3-4).

Norris gives an example of how acedia can take hold of her life:

“It begins as a deceptively slight shift in thought, or rather—in a process much commented on by the desert monks—a quick succession of thoughts that distract me from my right mind. I’ve been working too long and need a break; maybe I should read a mystery novel to clear my head. I tell myself that I’m too weary to concentrate. I tell myself that it is a matter of respecting my limitations, and of being good to myself [my emphasis]. If I manage to read one book, and then return to my other obligations, no harm is done. But often, one book does not satisfy me. My ‘rest’ has only made me more restless, and as I finish one book, I am tempted to pick up another. If I don’t check myself, I can slip into a state both anxious and lethargic, in which I trudge through four or five paperbacks a day, for three or four days running. I am consuming books rather than reading them. . . . The contemporary maxim, ‘Listen to your body,’ is useless to me when all I want to do is lie down, turn pages, and ignore that ringing phone [my emphasis]” (pp. 15-16).

This resonated deeply with me: reading this passage was an “aha” moment. I do this. I know this helplessness in the face of what seems like mindless repetition, this hollowed-out feeling like nothing matters, everything is meaningless. I’ve also struggled with the fact that in those moments listening to my body doesn’t feel helpful at all.

Norris goes on to meditate on the nature of acedia based primarily on the writings of early monks, as well as to examine its impact on her life, her writing and her marriage. Although I would recommend Acedia & Me to anyone who identifies with Norris’s description of acedia—this book certainly gave me a different perspective on my own “soul weariness”—I found the book lacked narrative structure. It is possible to combine a more scholarly approach with a memoir: Noelle Oxenhandler did it successfully in The Wishing Year: An Experiment in Desire, which I just finished reading recently. Unfortunately, Acedia & Me felt disorganized to me, as if Norris did not have enough distance from the subject matter to write about it clearly. I also wished the book was more personal—with more about her marriage and her writing life and less about the desert monks (these parts of the book started to feel repetitive after a while). Despite this, Acedia & Me is a thought-provoking primer on the all-but-forgotten sin of acedia. Norris even includes a commonplace book at the end of Acedia & Me, with quotes about acedia throughout history, starting with the Psalms and Seneca and ending with contemporary writers as diverse as Anita Brookner, Maurice Sendak and Roland Barthes.

A slightly different version of this review can be found on my blog, she reads and reads. ( )

Wonderfully insightful and endearing. Norris exposes herself with such heart and touches the soul with her gentleness of spirit and forcefulness of the truth of her pain. ( )

This is a powerful and profound book. I recommend it for readers over 40. While the problems of acedia may exist at any age, I don't think we perceive them as clearly until we reach the "noonday" of our lives: middle age. This is a book about what it means to be in it for the long haul, in life, in a relationship (a marriage), on a spiritual path. Our culture doesn't appreciate the repetitive, day to day activities, but, Norris argues, Christians should. The book does not give us precise instructions on how to do that, but it does present the wisdom of centuries of theology that has somehow fallen by the wayside. She's done a remarkable job of unearthing a myriad of references to acedia (the condition that devolved into the sin of sloth, but is so much more and, as Norris teaches, naming one's demon can be a step towards liberation), She has learned these truths the only way to learn them, the hard way, and tells her story with her usual skill. ( )

not your typical offering from Kathleen Norris ( )