Books like The Man Who Mistook His Wife for a Hat — picked by fans

Those of us who do behavior science are data-driven. In the realm of human services, it is hard to describe to people what you do and why this approach resonates with those of us in the field.

Just as I was coming into behavior science, I picked up this book, one of the few available dealing with autism. It was eye-opening: a mother’s honest, heart-wrenching, determined look as she came to understand behavior science as a gift of compassion, hope, and promise for those with autism and their families.

I remember thinking that this book was validating the career path I was going down, feeling optimistic about where it would take me, and being grateful to learn about the importance of listening to people talk about their struggles.

In the mid-90s, competing and sometimes absurd psychological ideas were everywhere, part of both popular culture and psychology. I was young and in search of answers in a sprawling sea of facts muddled with misinformation. The Myth of Repressed Memory was revelatory for me.

The authors detailed the fashionable but fictitious ideas about repressed memory and the horrifying results of unproven theories guiding therapies. They methodically and authoritatively asserted and separated facts from fiction. It showed me what could happen if therapists were guided and swayed by fantastical but fabricated theories.

It made me more certain I wanted to help; more sure that the better answers were found in science; and more determined that listening can and should be guided by critical thinking.

When I read this book, I knew who I was: a behavior scientist.

Knowing this, of course, didn’t bring me fame or fortune, nor did it solve any personal problems. Reading this book, though, was powerful and lasting.

It helped determine the idea I would pursue a life trying to help improve the human condition using behavior science, something I have done now for over 30 years. It made me realize behavior science is inherently empathic, pragmatic, and optimistic.

I didn’t read it understanding all of the references or all the ideas that I would come to study later, but I understood the listening I would do would provide an understanding of a person’s environment and how, maybe, just maybe, small changes in it could make the person’s world better, one behavior at a time.

As a 19-year-old kid thinking about maybe being a psychologist, I picked this book up after hearing about the idea of unconditional positive regard introduced by Carl Rogers.

This book contained transcriptions from many of the debates Rogers had with prominent psychologists in the 1950s. When I was reading it, much of it escaped me. But then, he had a dialogue with a psychologist that riveted me. When I read the psychologist’s words, I thought, “This is how I think,” and “Yes, this is the way I see things.”

The psychologist was the eminent behaviorist B. F. Skinner, and this book served to strengthen the idea of listening to others without judgment and also began my lifelong curiosity with more science-based approaches to helping others. 

I love Sack’s empathy toward his patients and his commitment to telling a different and highly unique narrative about the human experience. His classic collection of essays is not about intelligence, but each patient he writes about knows and understands the world differently than what is considered normal.

Sacks makes room for the challenges and brilliance of all ways of being in the world.

A wonderful and slightly maddening memoir, this (it’s nonfiction, Jim, but not as we know it). Bayley survived her childhood by absorbing books. She evokes the worlds of David Copperfield, Jane Eyre, and everything Agatha Christie ever wrote, by ventriloquising and interweaving the voices of those stories with the story of her own parental neglect, thereby insisting, if dreamily, that the boundaries between her reliable book-land and her unstable real-life-land will remain blurred. It’s only slightly maddening (I did much the same as a child; part of me will always be Katie tumbling out of the swing). The book’s deliberate ambiguities suggest that Bayley is claiming sanctuary, reserving the right not to divulge what is still too unbearable to relate, and why shouldn’t she? It’s an amazingly honest, touching book.

I saw my first raven near Mount Rainier. The bird looked me in the eye, hopped to the left, sized me up, and continued his business. The advancing Russian army drove Bernd Heinrich and his family into the forest near Hahnheide, Germany, where they lived in a small hut for five years.

There, he began his lifelong quest to connect with insects (especially bees), owls, trees, antelope (he runs ultramarathons), geese...and ravens. The mind of the Raven is a deep, scientific meditation on the intersection between being human and raven. It concludes that “ultimately [our differences are] less a matter of consciousness than of culture” (342).

I wonder how culture has dulled my imagination, a struggle Heinrich clearly has fought more successfully than I have.

A photograph gives me the form of the bird, but it remains up to me to see the bird as a bird. And that can be difficult. What do we see when we see a bird? 

The Peregrine, J. A. Baker’s masterpiece of descriptive prose, provides an answer, an answer that is as much about how we see as it is about what we see when we see birds. Sometimes we pull ourselves into the sight of others and the world emerges as more than its light. We see by being seen.

Baker achieves this kind of seeing both in his efforts to see a pair of peregrines and in his description of this achievement. 

If You Lived Here You’d Be Famous By Now is a debut novel by Via Bleidner, a young writer who reports her experiences living in the L.A./San Fernando Valley enclave of Calabasas, attending the Calabasas High School. Calabasas, for those who have missed this essential chapter of contemporary lunacy, is home to the Kardashians. Bleidner writes about the world she has inhabited as a reporter. She participates, but she also is able to maintain a certain writer's detachment describing the shenanigans the natives engage in: lip surgery, social media, and dog celebrities. But there is humor in this slice of the L.A. experience. Bleidner not only describes, but also tries to understand and reflect. 

Since I taught school for thirty-one years, this book was especially fascinating to me because it involved two young teachers spending their summer in 1943 working on a production line at a San Diego bomber plant. It enlightened me significantly on how difficult it often was for women during that time to be accepted in what was usually an exclusively male world of work.