Books like Down Below — picked by fans

Victor Frankl was an Austrian psychologist who was sent to Auschwitz by the German Nazis because he was Jewish.

While in the camp, Frankl noticed that individual prisoners responded in totally different ways to the same appalling circumstances: some stole food from others, some hoarded their food, and some shared their food with others. He concludes that human freedom is ineradicable. He also learned from his camp experience that people want meaning in life as much as they want food or water. Human beings do not live for pleasure, but for the discovery of meaning.

I loved this very inspiring and compelling book about how some people, like Frankl, can rise above the most horrendous suffering.

Kay Redfield Jamison’s classic memoir of bipolar disorder captures the highs and lows of the illness with exceptional clarity. 

She describes the dilemma as a doctor of deciding whether to reveal her diagnosis, a dilemma that resonated with me as a law professor, but is common to many people with bipolar who can “pass for normal” most of the time.

Elyn Saks is one of my heroes.

Her riveting memoir takes the reader inside the mind of a person who has achieved great personal and professional success while living with schizophrenia. The descriptions of psychosis and psychiatric hospitalization ring true to my own experiences.

I found hope and inspiration from Professor Sak’s remarkable life story, but the book may be even more important for someone who hasn’t experienced psychosis and wonders what it’s like.

A remarkable, inter-generational tale about madness amongst accomplished medical men. When the Toronto journalist James FitzGerald reached his father’s age at the time of his death by suicide, he felt the haunting pull of family history. His father and grandfather had both killed themselves, sleeping in the same bedroom in the same house.

Dr. John G. Fitzgerald founded the lab that first produced insulin for diabetics, and was also instrumental in the development of a diphtheria vaccine. His son was also a highly respected doctor. Both were pulled under by the riptide of depression at a time when successful, bread-winning men did not talk of mental anguish.

Resolved not to follow in their footsteps, James FitzGerald instead went into therapy and wrote this intensely gripping book about the shadow side of masculine privilege and the history of medicine and psychiatry in the first half of the 20th century.

My first introduction to the surreal in art was Monty Python’s Flying Circus. My first introduction to the art movement of surrealism was seeing Max Ernst’s "Two Children Are Threatened by a Nightingale". I was astounded that you were allowed to do that. Then I discovered Magritte (and later Escher) and saw that the anarchy of surrealism could be put to the most profound use, that of exploring life beyond the material. Magritte uses conventional representation to undermine that very convention and puncture so-called reality in a way that is a joy to look at. This is a decent book on his life and work. Magritte reminds us things are not what they seem… and that’s a good thing.

I loved this book because it tells the story of two lives, both intertwined with each other. The first primary story is that of the brilliantly talented artist Leonora Carrington and her determination to paint and pursue her love of art despite the many hurdles in her way–not least war, poverty, and family disapproval.

The second is that of her second cousin, Joanna Moorhead, who becomes determined to discover her story before it is too late and, in doing so, adds depth and purpose to her own life. This is a wild and fascinating book.

I first read this book in 1987, when I was a fourth-year medical student. This is the book that really sparked my interest in psychiatry.

It opened my eyes to the possibility that even those in the most disturbed state of mind experience meaningful and understandable human dilemmas. It’s as fresh and relevant today as it was when it was first published six decades ago. A deeply humane text that humanizes the most disenfranchised and lost of our human family.

I wasn’t following professional cycling in the bad old days of systematic doping, but this book made me feel like I was there—not just at the roadside, but in the peloton.

The characters—the good, the bad, and the downright repulsive, are all caught in a system that grinds down the best and brings out the worst, and I couldn’t look away. I wanted integrity to prevail, I wanted justice done, but most of all, I wanted to know what happened next.

Then there’s the prose, which is so bright and vivid that I found a new favourite line in almost every chapter. It’s compulsive, stylish, and cynical—rather like the sport itself.

Rimbaud is the inescapable, volcanically talented, revolutionary poet of late 19th century France, the boy who had mastered the classical idioms and forms of the art by the time he was fifteen, and by age eighteen was reinventing poetic language both in the prose poems of Illuminations and in visionary irregular lyrics. He stopped writing poetry at age twenty, but the poems he left behind helped to open the door to modern poetry around the world.

MacGregor’s book blew my mind when I first read it. This masterful history reveals the discovery of a secret treasure, one that eventually transformed the art world.

In the 19th and 20th centuries, mental asylums in Europe began experimenting with art therapy, allowing psychotic inmates access to drawing materials. Over seventeen chapters jam-packed with astounding images, MacGregor’s book tracks the evolution of what is now known as Outsider art and the profound effect it had (and continues to have) on avant-garde art.

I love MacGregor’s ability to marry the rigor of a scholar with a humane and sensitive commentary on the lives of these forgotten "schizophrenic masters.” This book inspired my own research into schizophrenic art and is my go-to source for inspiration on this theme.