Hello Darkness: Reflections on Mariana Alessandri’s Night Vision

Optimistic/pessimistic. Rational/irrational. Light/dark. When considering our orientation towards existence, the spirit in which we navigate and interpret the world, it is all too tempting to fall back on simplistic – but undeniably evocative – binaries such as these. Given the complexity inherent in living a human life, these oppositions can arguably help us sift through the wealth of experiences and ideas assailing us every day, acting as a kind of crude filter or shorthand. But when we reify these polarisations, load them with value and hierarchise them, do we risk obscuring much of what can give life meaning, and worse, lend weight to broader structures of oppression at work across our societies? Instead of shunning experiences perceived as ‘dark’ and taking refuge in radically optimistic ideas that everything will somehow, in some way, all work out, should we instead try to sit with the darkness, and develop what Mariana Alessandri terms ‘Night Vision’? 

As compelling as it is gently confronting, Alessandri’s new book addresses these and related questions with wit and compassion – as well as a welcome acknowledgement that definitive answers may evade us. Drawing on her experience teaching philosophy at the University of Texas Rio Grande Valley (where she is an associate professor) as well as a knowledge of existentialist thought that both encompasses and reaches well beyond the traditional pantheon, the author deftly weaves together anecdotes from home and classroom with broader reflections on what it might mean to value dark moods. The stories of many students run through this work, illustrating (and sometimes complicating) Alessandri’s wider themes. Whether relating a first encounter with Plato’s cave or a re-evaluation of what anxiety might have to teach us, with Kierkegaard’s life and ideas in mind, these vignettes help to demonstrate what is at stake in this discussion while simultaneously enriching it. Much the same can be said of the author’s autobiographical stories, with sections on parental anger and connecting with a seriously ill parent proving especially poignant. By highlighting the potential value that can be derived from such experiences – a recognition that one is unfairly overburdened and under-supported in the former, and a window for emotional vulnerability in the latter – Alessandri asks us to look again at our customary value judgements in light of real, nuanced situations.   

Night Vision seems to be a work of public philosophy: looking beyond the academy while seeking to ignite discussion about what the implications of ‘dark’ moods might be for all of us. The work is divided into five main sections alongside an introduction and conclusion, with each tackling a different mood or experience: anger, sadness/pain (interpreted as dolor), grief, depression and anxiety. Each section foregrounds the pertinent ideas of a particular thinker: in turn Audre Lorde, María Lugones, Miguel de Unamuno, C. S. Lewis, Gloria Anzaldúa and Søren Kierkegaard. The book’s central task is, as described in the introduction, to discover whether ‘truth, goodness, and beauty reside not only in light but also in darkness’ (page 13), and to what degree answering in the negative – as many societies have encouraged us to do – may have been a grave error. Nevertheless, this is fortunately far from a polemic against the idea of dark moods being potentially harmful, or against the concept of mental illness: like a dispiriting plea for the world to swap out SSRIs for Seneca. Indeed the Stoics - both ancient and modern - come in for some relevant criticism as regards to their, in my view unrealistic, portrait of absolute control over the emotions. Instead, we might see Alessandri’s main target as being the combination of two pervasive social narratives, ‘the Light Metaphor’ and ‘the brokenness story’, which can prove oppressive on both an individual and a collective level (page 8).  

According to Alessandri, we can see the Light Metaphor at work in everything from portrayals of Jesus as ‘the Light’ to the rise of self-help books like The Power of Positive Thinking – teaching us that light is ‘smarter than dark… optimism holier than pessimism’ (page 6). Under the sway of this school of thought, being ‘bright’ in mood and outlook has become a kind of social imperative, particularly in the US, with corresponding states of ‘darkness’ assessed as ugly or inadequate. Alessandri goes on to present a compelling case that such ideas may be a factor in Western societies’ grim litany of racist and colourist oppressions, with those seen as ‘dark’ cast as inferior both intellectually and morally along the lines of the Light Metaphor. The Brokenness Story is a ‘bad cop’ narrative counterpart to the Light Metaphor’s deceptive ‘good cop’. It is taken to encompass the ways that darker moods, feelings or experiences are said to represent a culpable failing, a weakness and/or self-pitying tendency that we should be able to overcome with a ready smile and some get-up-and-go. Many of us who experience dark moods, or tend to interpret the world in a critical, some would say pessimistic light, will have been confronted by such attitudes at one time or another. It also seems fair to suggest that living in an environment which treats sadness, anxiety and similar feelings as signs of brokenness will lead people to eventually view themselves as broken. 

This leads us to one of the trickier areas of the book, analysing a complex interplay between dark moods and experiences, the notion of mental illness, and dignity. Reflecting on the limitations of ancient philosophical schools – such as the Epicurean prescription for tranquillity through eliminating the causes of suffering, and its echoes in later positive psychology work – Alessandri suggests instances where experiences of suffering may be enriching, not aberrant. Seeking to suppress all suffering may indeed, as Miguel de Unamuno suggested, cut off ‘opportunities for intimacy and connection’ (page 63). A section on the work of Gloria Anzaldúa (a brilliantly original thinker unjustly excluded from the academic establishment of her time) outlines the role that depression played in shaping her blend of philosophy and myth, without minimising the very potent suffering involved. Considering these and other stories citied within Night Vision, we can see ways in which the Brokenness Story, and a corresponding sense that we can and should eliminate all darkness from our lives, could be misguided or damaging. This is a train of thought that could be usefully discussed in a number of contexts, well beyond the halls of the university. 

Nevertheless, one area where I might diverge from Alessandri slightly is the idea that psychiatric / mental illness models of ‘darkness’ undermine one’s sense of personal dignity. Part of this may be attributable to cultural factors, and potential differences in attitude encountered in the UK as opposed to the US. But while it seems undeniable that poor treatment within psychiatric systems can cruelly strip away a sense of personal dignity, I do not personally feel that only regarding certain forms of suffering as a ‘brain disease’, or as a pathology to struggle against, necessarily makes one feel undignified. In some cases, an individual may derive a sense of dignity from viewing themselves as living with a mental disorder and yet struggling to try and attain a decent life, for example. Seeing oneself as broken could be damaging, or it could conversely relieve someone from the pressure to be ‘flawless’, and to turn healing – whatever that means to them – into a kind of motivating life project. It does not seem to me that seeing oneself as ‘battling’ mental illness, for example, is necessarily ‘degrading’ (page 10), or that ‘you can’t build a positive self-concept on brokenness’ (page 11). Regardless of this, Alessandri’s writing on mental illness – and the ambiguous line between it and regular human experience – is consistently sensitive and insightful, and it is altogether possible that I am misinterpreting her position here. Even if not, it is without doubt a useful perspective to take on board and consider, whether one endorses it or not. 

Finally, Night Vision is an invaluable reminder of some ways in which academic philosophy has long resembled a gated community of the mind, with countless innovative and original thinkers finding the entrance barred because of cultural prejudice. Retelling the story of María Lugones while drawing on her insights into different forms of anger and exploring how Gloria Anzaldúa made important contributions to philosophical thought while operating (out of necessity) outside of its academic mainstream, Alessandri invites us to consider the historically exclusionary nature of the said academy. In addition, she writes powerfully on her own experiences navigating philosophy as a female academic of colour (pages 17-18), and ways in which immense, entirely justified frustrations arising from this can still end up being dismissed as neither ‘healthy’ nor rational. Both as an element of the book’s overall thesis and as standalone reflections, these sections of Night Vision should stay with many readers, and lead us to further consider how philosophy can be rendered less elitist, narrow and unwelcoming. 

Overall, this is a valuable and stimulating contribution to a number of ongoing discussions – around the nature of mental health, the boundaries of what counts as philosophy and who gets to decide, and America’s culture of ‘positive thinking’ among others – that should be of benefit to readers both within and well beyond academic philosophy.   

Rob Sayce is an arts journalist and postgraduate philosophy student, currently studying at King's College London. Their research interests include the intersection of ethics and mental health care, epistemic (in)justice and the potential applications of public philosophy.