The best philosophy books for everyone

This book is a bit of a gut punch, as it’s asking one of the hardest questions for those of us who are parents: how do we raise our kids in this scary, modern world? The heart of the dilemma buried in this question is that we want to do everything we can for our kids, but in a world of dwindling resources, spending so many of them and passing on as much privilege as we can feels like trying to best position our children on a sinking ship.

While I have come to terms with the idea that I ought to sacrifice my own interests in the name of calming a world on fire, it’s quite something else to realize that perhaps I ought to sacrifice some interests of the person whom I love most in the world—that perhaps they’re not entitled to everything I want to give them. This book never helped me feel at ease with my parenting responsibilities, but it did help me wrestle with them.

I love Kate Manne’s writing. In many ways, her first book, Down Girl, impacted me more, but it was published by an academic press. And my (totally made up, but I’m sticking to them!) rules for this list is that the books must be published with a trade press, so they genuinely intend to do philosophy with everyone.

This is Manne’s second trade book, but it is the work of hers that I found most immediately gripping, personal, and a bit haunting. As someone who has struggled with body image throughout my life and who has come slowly and haltingly to an uneasy truce with my aging and often disobedient body, so many of the stories Manne tells about fatness, fatphobia, and our cultural attitudes about body size hit pretty hard. 

I was shaken by the power of Setiya’s writing. Academic philosophers are not exactly known for the beauty of their prose, but this book is, indeed, beautiful. And sad. And a bit dark. So basically, it was exactly what I look for in a book.

I was drawn in by Setiya’s early disclosure that he lives with chronic pain and that this would be part of his window into exploring suffering. As someone who also lives with pain (and who has tried to write about it), I found his reflections powerful.

His chapter on grief, too, stayed with me, so much so that I went back to it after experiencing a loss in my life. Perhaps that’s the greatest compliment I can give this book—that it truly made philosophy matter to me when I needed it to.

This is an absolutely devastating book. I read it in a single sitting some years ago, and I don’t think I’ve ever stopped thinking about it. And if “devastating” doesn’t sound like a recommendation, I understand, and yet—it’s one of the best books I’ve ever read.

Although Kalanithi was a neurosurgeon, not a professional philosopher, he was a humanist in the best sense of the word, constantly struggling to make meaning in his life through philosophy, literature, and the arts. When he receives what will be his terminal cancer diagnosis, his big question is: do I do surgery with the time I have left? Or write a book? He ends up doing a bit of both, all the while looking for meaning—both in the time he has left and in his quickly approaching death.

I think I learned more about life and death and how I want to live from this young surgeon than from any of the great philosophers I’ve read.

Michael Schur is not a philosopher—he’s a comedian and the creator of the hit TV show The Good Place. Thus, since I am a professional philosopher, perhaps I’m supposed to be snide about the fact that Schur wrote a philosophy book. But I’m not. I really love the book, and I’ve recommended it to many friends who want a light and airy introduction to philosophy.

It’s funny and irreverent and does an impressive amount of really good philosophy. I laughed out loud while reading it, and even though I teach a lot of the fairly introductory material that Schur covers, I learned a lot just due to the breadth of what he discusses in this wide-ranging book. I came away thinking that perhaps more comedians should do philosophy!