Book Review: Bittersweet

Bittersweet—that’s a word we hear often, probably several times a week. My 1995 Webster’s New World Dictionary defines it as “pleasure mixed with sadness,” which is okay, but not nearly as powerful as how Susan Cain describes it in her wonderful book, Bittersweet: How Sorrow and Longing Make Us Whole.

Here is Susan’s description:

“The melancholic direction, which I call the ‘bittersweet’: a tendency to states of longing, poignancy, and sorrow; an acute awareness of passing time; and a curiously piercing joy at the beauty of the world. The bittersweet is also about the recognition that light and dark, birth and death—bitter and sweet—are forever paired.” (p. xxiii)

That, my friends, is a wonderful description of bittersweet.

Susan Cain, author of Quiet: The Power of Introverts in a World That Can’t Stop Talking, is one of my favorite authors. In Bittersweet, she takes her readers on a remarkable journey of introspection.

“Most of all, bittersweetness shows us how to respond to pain: by acknowledging it, and attempting to turn it into art, the way musicians do, or into healing, or innovation, or anything else that nourishes the soul. If we don’t transform our sorrows and longings, we can end up inflicting them on others—via abuse, domination, neglect… This idea—of transforming pain into creativity, transcendence, and love—is the heart of this book.” (p. xxv)

I usually skip the questionnaires or quizzes included in books, but this is Susan Cain we’re talking about, so of course I completed the one at the start. My Bittersweet Quiz score was 7.3 out of 10, so I am a true connoisseur of that place where light and dark meet.

With that as an introduction, let me begin the review.

The book is divided into three parts: Sorrow and Longing, Winners and Losers, and Mortality, Impermanence, and Grief.

I loved the entire book, but my favorite chapters were Chapter 1: How should we cope with lost love? and Chapter 9: Do we inherit the pain of our parents and ancestors? And, if so, can we transform it generations later?

These two chapters were particularly impactful, and I took copious notes to reflect on as I think about my own life.

Here are some highlights:

“Americans prioritize happiness so much that we wrote the pursuit of it into our founding documents, then proceeded to write over thirty thousand books on the subject, as per a recent Amazon search. We’re taught from a very young age to scorn our own tears (‘Crybaby!’), then to censure our sorrow for the rest of our lives. In a study of more than seventy thousand people, Harvard psychologist Dr. Susan David found that one-third of us judge ourselves for having ‘negative’ emotions such as sadness and grief. ‘We do this not only to ourselves,’ says David, ‘but also to people we love, like our children.’” (pp. xxv–xxvi)

“The bittersweet-melancholic mode, in contrast, can seem backward-leaning, unproductive, and mired in longing. It yearns for what could have been, or what might yet be. But longing is momentum in disguise: it’s active, not passive; touched with the creative, the tender, and the divine. We long for something, or someone. We reach for it, move toward it.” (p. xxvi)

“We’re taught to think of our psychic and physical wounds as the irregularities in our lives, deviations from what should have been; sometimes, as sources of stigma. But our stories of loss and separation are also the baseline state, right alongside our stories of landing our dream job, falling in love, giving birth to our miraculous children. And the very highest states—of awe and joy, wonder and love, meaning and creativity—emerge from this bittersweet nature of reality. We experience them not because life is perfect, but because it’s not.” (pp. 13–14)

“Yearning: the place you suffer is the place you care. You hurt because you care. Therefore, the best response to pain is to dive deeper into your caring.” (p. 15)

Dacher Keltner, a psychology professor at the University of California, Berkeley, taught that “Fear keeps you safe. Anger protects you from getting taken advantage of. And sadness—what does sadness do? Sadness triggers compassion. It brings people together.” (p. 94)

“We know from various studies that attitudes of superiority prevent us from reacting to others’ sadness—and even to our own.” (p. 109)

“The more gently we speak to ourselves, the more we’ll do the same for others. So the next time you hear that harsh internal voice, pause, take a breath—and try again. Speak to yourself with the same tenderness you’d extend to a beloved child.” (p. 111)

“The term effortless perfection was coined not at Princeton but at Duke University in 2003, and at first it referred to pressure reserved specifically for young women: to be smart, beautiful, thin, and popular, without seeming to try… It’s no accident that the phrase effortless perfection originated at the nation’s elite universities, where young winners attempt to hold their gains. Or that it was born during an era of rising rates of anxiety, depression, and suicide on campus. Because the phenomenon is not so much about perfection as it is about victory. It’s about being the kind of person who wins; about floating so high that you avoid the bitter side of life; it’s about not being a loser.” (pp. 134–135)

Cain ends Chapter 5 with a powerful set of questions: “And what happens to these students—to all of us—as we reach adulthood and make our way to the workplace, to start families of our own, and beyond? How do we get to the point of seeing our sorrows and longings not as indications of secret unworthiness but as features of humanity? How do we come to realize that embracing our inner loser as well as winner—the bitter and the sweet—is the key to transcending them both, the key to meaning, creativity, and joy?” (p. 135)

“The most common objection to the immortalist project is that it’s delusional—no matter how advanced our technology gets, the snake will always eat Gilgamesh’s flower… But the deeper concern is that humans aren’t meant to be gods… If, as Plato said, we can’t grasp reality without contemplating death, what would it mean to bypass it altogether?” (p. 176)

“Part of this utopian vision—at least the part that has to do with world peace—derives from a field in social psychology called terror management theory. According to this theory, the fear of death encourages tribalism, by making us want to affiliate with a group identity that would seem to outlive us… So if immortality frees us from our fear of death, goes the thinking, we’ll grow more harmonious, less nationalistic, and more open to outsiders… It’s a nice idea, but solving toxicity and conflict is unlikely to be this simple. Indeed, our true challenge—as this discussion suggests—may not be death at all (or not only death), but rather the sorrows and longings of being alive. We think we long for eternal life, but maybe what we’re really longing for is perfect and unconditional love.” (pp. 177–178)

Chapter 9 opens with the story of the Japanese Buddhist poet Issa, a haiku master. After losing his daughter before the age of two to smallpox, he wrote about the inability to accept impermanence:

“I concede that water can never return to its source, nor scattered blossoms to their branch, but even so the bonds of affection are hard to break.” He then wrote the following haiku:

“It is true
That this world of dew
Is a world of dew.
But even so…”

“But even so,” says Issa, “I’ll long for my daughter forever. But even so, I’ll never be whole again.” (pp. 180–181)

“If you’re a naturally bittersweet type, you have a head start; you’re constitutionally prone to feel the tug of impermanence. Another way to get there is simply to wait for middle age, which seems to carry some of the psychological benefits of aging without the downsides of your body falling apart… But I have an acute consciousness, which I lacked fifteen years ago, that time is limited. This gives me no anxiety, at least not yet; but it does make me feel as if I should soak everything up while I still can.” (pp. 190–191)

“Two hundred years ago, Issa taught that we should be aware of impermanence—we should notice how ephemeral the dewdrops are—but we shouldn’t pretend that grief disappears. No matter how much your culture tells you to smile, it’s not human to simply move on.” (p. 203)

“How many times have you heard, from someone whose parents died young: I am now the age my mother was when she got the diagnosis. My father was an alcoholic: I don’t want to be like him. Such declarations echo the ancient proverb quoted in Ezekiel: ‘The fathers ate sour grapes, and their children’s teeth were set on edge.’ But the Bible quotes this proverb in order to reject it: We aren’t responsible for the sins of our parents, it says. And neither must we bear their pain. This doesn’t mean turning our backs on our forebears. We can send our love back to them, across the centuries. But on their behalf and ours, we can follow the bittersweet tradition, and transform their troubles into something better.” (p. 229)

Susan Cain’s gift lies not only in her storytelling but also in her synthesis of history, psychology, spirituality, and philosophy. She draws from Rumi and Leonard Cohen with the same ease as she does from modern psychological research. She writes with reverence about “the wound of separation,” the typical sense that something essential has been lost, and that our yearning to return to it is not a weakness but a compass. Longing, she argues, points to beauty, to connection, to meaning.

Cain also shares her personal story, particularly her conflict with her mother, grounding the book in authenticity. She writes not as a distant theorist but as someone who has lived what she describes, and her vulnerability gives the book its soul.

If there is a call to action in this book, it is this: Don’t run from sorrow. Don’t anesthetize longing. Instead, lean into it. Let it guide you toward what you love most. Let it break your heart open.

In a world that often feels like it prizes relentless optimism, Bittersweet is a quiet rebellion. It is an antidote to the tenderhearted. It is a reminder that to be fully alive is to be cracked open, and that the cracks are where the light comes in.

64 thoughts on “Book Review: Bittersweet”

  1. What a fantastic review. I’ve only just begun reading Cohen, and someone said I should get works of Rumi, so this review felt like the universe is sending strong hints. I’m gonna get this book, as your recommendations have always been excellent. Thanks, Edward.

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  2. The Portuguese word is saudade; longing, perhaps regret, missing someone. I value that word and concept. This book by Cain sounds so moving. I find especially wise; “Don’t anesthetize longing. Instead, lean into it. ” Words we need to hear as a culture in the US.

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    1. Thank you, Rebecca. Her book is absolutely moving and captures longing and melancholy so well. You’re absolutely right, and I truly believe this country would benefit from hearing her message.

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  3. “…a curiously piercing joy at the beauty of the world.” Beautiful. Thank you for your review, Edward. I’ve just checked Bittersweet out of an online library after reading your post. Looking forward to reading the book.

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  4. Dear Edward, thank you for introducing me to this author! I was so taken by your review that I knew before I even finished reading it that I would be buying both of the titles, Quiet… and Bittersweet. Somehow I missed this author and I can tell her work is something I crave. Your review is wonderful!

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    1. You’re so welcome, Lori. She’s wonderful, and Quiet really helped me a lot. I really love the way she writes, you immediately connect with her message. Thank you for your wonderful comments.

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  5. Still one of my favorite books, Edward. I remember reading and feeling struck by recognition – about who I am and my comfort in “the place where light and dark meet”. What a terrific, personalized review you’ve provided. I love that Michele picked up on the same nuance about your “connoisseur” status. We see you! 🥰🥰🥰

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  6. Hi Edward,

    Oh my goodness… I am here clinging to almost every word. But mostly agreeing to the idea that pain, sorrow, and longing guide us to the things we love most.

    Recently, life has taught me that love is a leap of faith. We desire it most and yet, it hurts the most. But I am learning to sit in it and being a Christian, to extend unconditional love as I would wish it extended to me.

    That’s hard – Rather ‘Bittersweet’.

    I liked this part of the review,

    “If there is a call to action in this book, it is this: Don’t run from sorrow. Don’t anesthetize longing. Instead, lean into it. Let it guide you toward what you love most. Let it break your heart open.

    In a world that often feels like it prizes relentless optimism, Bittersweet is a quiet rebellion. It is an antidote to the tenderhearted. It is a reminder that to be fully alive is to be cracked open, and that the cracks are where the light comes in.”

    What a book. What a review.

    Thank you.

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    1. You’re so very welcome, Hannah. I’m glad that you enjoyed the review. I hear you, extending love to others can be hard at times. But as imperfect humans, all we can do is try our best. Romans 12:17–18 comes to mind: “Do not repay anyone evil for evil. Be careful to do what is right in the eyes of everyone. If it is possible, as far as it depends on you, live at peace with everyone.” Much of this chapter is about loving others, and God knows we are imperfect, living by grace, so we do the best we can. Thank you for your wonderful comment.

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  8. Excellent review, Edward, or should I write, true connoisseur of that place where light and dark meet. As you already know, I love this book and Cain’s writing, and I appreciate you bringing me back to it with well-chosen excerpts and thoughtful reactions. Well done my book club friend. 🙏🏻📖

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      1. I did score 💯 on that quiz, yes. Revealing though not too surprising. I believe it is the type of book, like her first, that will continue to unfold and teach long after finishing. Thank you for the book suggestion. 🙏🏻

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  13. What a beautiful review, Edward. I love all the sections you pulled out! I heard Susan Cain speak about the sadness that her kids faced at the end of a vacation. She and her husband had to come to terms with that grief before they could help their kids through it. It changed how I help my kids when we are sad to be leaving. Such great wisdom!

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    1. Thank you so much, Wynne. I believe that’s the story about her kids getting attached to a couple of donkeys. She included it in the book, and what they told their kids about the pain of saying goodbye, that it’s a part of life and something they would feel again, was really impactful. Understanding this concept early in life can bring many benefits in the future.

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  14. Thank you so much for your review of ‘Bittersweet’. I bought it recently and it currently awaits my attention on the bookshelf. I’ll move it higher up on my next to read list – it sounds excellent. 🙏🏼

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  15. Your review alludes to a very interesting and profound book. I loved the emphasis on the contrast of life as an essential for acknowledging life’s true value. This point in particular is gold: “And the very highest states—of awe and joy, wonder and love, meaning and creativity—emerge from this bittersweet nature of reality.” Without the contrast, we can’t touch these higher states. The bitter is the way to the sweet. And if we consciously commit to work with the bitter, greater sweetness can come to light. And here I mean higher personal growth and greater creative expressions. Ultimately, it’s all energy, and we, as consciousnesses, have the power to direct it “someplace” else. Isn’t this the highest purpose for our lives? Thank you so much, Edward, for this amazing review and subject. Very inspiring! In appreciation and gratitude, sending you light and blessings 🙏✨

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    1. Thank you so much for your comments, Susana. I love this line you wrote: “And if we consciously commit to work with the bitter, greater sweetness can come to light.” It’s so true and should definitely be a goal for many of us.

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  16. I absolutely loved Susan Cain’s book Quiet, and yet I hadn’t even heard of this offering. Just knowing that she is the author would be enough to make me want to read it, but your thoughtful review clinches the deal. Thanks for this, Edward.

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  17. Your post is interesting and offers much to think about, Edward. I believe that artists do lean into their feelings, and those feelings are reflected in their art, whether it be drawing, painting, music, dance, or writing. We connect emotionally through our craft.

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  19. Hi, Ed. Once again you compel provocative thought with this post. I consider myself an eternal optimist. However, I have learned over the last several years to embrace grief and loss (my oldest son died), change (retirement and aging), and learning new things (letting go of old perspectives). Reading this post gave me new insight into bittersweet. I appreciate the time I had in these scenarios. The pain of loss is there. However, we cannot grow if there is not both. The joy of new things, new perspectives, stretching beyond our finite mind, is not all there is. How can we know the joy without the contrast of pain? Hence, life itself is bittersweet.

    I must get some hard copies of Susan Cain’s writings. You have sold me on her gift. Your reviews are awesome.

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    1. Thank you very much, Sandra, and I’m sorry for your loss. I agree with you that life itself is bittersweet, and I think learning to accept that is important. This book is definitely helping me understand how to balance the bittersweetness.

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  22. That sounds a lot like the grief counseling I got after my dad passed and I suffered (and still do) so much guilt about it. He had become my best friend and total concern, it felt like losing a limb when he died. I shouldn’t have moved him from his house, etc. Are the types of things I told myself, and more.

    We read a book by Brown that had exercises in it like these, they really cause you to think and discuss in a group setting which was so helpful.

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    1. The book covers grief and provides examples, so it’s probably similar to what’s discussed during counseling. The book definitely makes you think about life, and that’s why I like her style.

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  24. I haven’t read Bittersweet yet, but I think you’ve summed up the magic ingredient to Cain’s writing. “She writes not as a distant theorist but as someone who has lived what she describes, and her vulnerability gives the book its soul.” She sets up the theory or science. But it’s her own soulfulness and authenticity that stick out to me. Interesting review Edward. 😎 😎 😎

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