A Most Peculiar Examination of the Mind
It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a reader in possession of book-induced emotional distress, must be in want of a therapist.
Thus, with much reluctance and perhaps the smallest measure of curiosity, Mr. Fitzwilliam Darcy has consented to take upon himself this most novel occupation. Whether he possesses the patience for it remains to be seen.
Pray, enter the office, take your seat, and prepare yourself for an entirely silent, deeply judgmental, and unnecessarily dramatic first session with Mr. Darcy, Literary Therapist.
The Consultation Begins
Upon arrival, one finds Mr. Darcy seated at an imposing mahogany desk, posture faultless, expression impenetrable. The room is dimly lit, as though excessive brightness might provoke too much candor. The only sounds are the distant ticking of an elegant clock and, more ominously, the rustling of expensive fabric as he crosses one leg over the other.
He regards his new patient (you, dear reader) with an air of studied detachment, tilting his head ever so slightly as though contemplating a rather underwhelming piece of modern art.
"Well," he says at last, voice low and measured. "I suppose we must begin."
He says no more.
The silence stretches.
You begin to wonder if this is some manner of test. It is not, and yet, it is.
A Most Uncomfortable Silence
Having expected the customary pleasantries, you shift in your seat, adjusting your coat (or perhaps your empire-waist gown).
Mr. Darcy does not move.
You clear your throat. He remains unmoved.
It occurs to you that he has no intention of asking any questions.
You are expected to begin the conversation yourself.
And so, hesitantly, you reveal the source of your distress:
You have suffered greatly at the hands of fictional characters.
A single brow lifts—the smallest acknowledgment of your pain.
An Inquiry Into Your Condition
"I see," he says at last, voice as smooth and unhurried as the pouring of an expensive brandy. "And yet, I must ask—"
He pauses, folding his hands before him, his gaze piercing through your very soul.
"Why should this affect you so?"
The question is neither cruel nor kind—it is simply asked with the maddening air of a man who has never been wrong in his life.
You stammer out an explanation about attachment, about sorrow, about the devastating finality of a well-written death scene. Your voice shakes slightly as you recount the loss of a beloved character—one who had deserved so much more.
You tell him about Fred Weasley. About Will Herondale. About the agony of Matthias Helvar.
A muscle in his jaw twitches ever so slightly. Perhaps, for the briefest moment, he is moved.
But then—he blinks, and the moment is gone.
Mr. Darcy Does Not Approve of Your Literary Weakness
"I confess," he murmurs, "that I find such… excessive sentiment to be most peculiar."
A pause.
"Have you considered simply not becoming attached to those whose fate you do not control?"
You stare at him.
He stares back.
Sir.
SIR.
What manner of soulless creature can read The Infernal Devices and remain indifferent?
The urge to throw a copy of Clockwork Princess at his perfectly sculpted face is overwhelming.
Mr. Darcy’s Proposed Course of Treatment
"I suppose," he sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose as though this entire session is an unbearable inconvenience, "that you may, in time, train yourself to accept the necessary separations of fiction."
He exhales, as though graciously offering you a lifeline.
"However… I acknowledge that one cannot always be governed by reason."
Another pause. His fingers tap once, twice, against the desk.
"If you find yourself… indisposed by these events, perhaps you should remove yourself from such literature entirely."
The silence that follows is deafening.
Remove yourself from such literature.
Sir.
Sir.
You did not come here to be told to stop reading books.
You came here for comfort, understanding, and the soothing tones of a brooding man in a waistcoat.
Final Diagnosis: A Lost Cause
Mr. Darcy leans back in his chair, steepling his fingers, studying you as though you are an exceptionally complex novel.
"Your condition is most unfortunate," he declares at last. "And yet, I cannot say I am surprised."
He hesitates, then—almost grudgingly—adds:
"You are not the first to arrive here in such distress. I have observed a pattern amongst readers of your particular… disposition."
A pattern.
"You are, as you say, ‘bookshook.’ A most regrettable affliction."
At this, he looks almost pitying. But then, just as quickly, the expression is gone.
"It cannot be helped."
And with that, Mr. Darcy stands.
Final Prescription: None. You Are Beyond Help.
As you rise to leave, still reeling from this emotionally distant consultation, you hear him clear his throat.
"Though I find the nature of your affliction perplexing," he murmurs, gaze averted, "I… suppose it is preferable to complete indifference."
A pause.
"One might even say that to feel so deeply is… admirable."
Your heart stops.
Did Mr. Darcy just… approve of your emotional instability?
Before you can respond, he turns away, staring moodily out of a rain-streaked window.
The session is over.
But the memory of it will haunt you forever.
Would You Survive Therapy With Mr. Darcy?
Dear reader, how did this session leave you feeling?
💀 Validated?
💀 Completely ignored?
💀 Ready to fistfight a brooding Regency man in a waistcoat?
💬 Drop your own traumatic fictional therapy stories below—or share on social media using #BookShookTherapy. Let's grieve together!
Next week, we’re sending Kaz Brekker to someone as a therapist. Will they survive? Stay tuned.
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