In today's so-called "literary" marketplace, there is a slew of self-help books for everyone ranging from normal to a teensy bit abnormal. These books are purchased because a) they look easier than The Mill on the Floss, b) they look less scary than A Million Little Pieces, c) the buyers have already read The Da Vinci Code, d) the buyers don't need to lose weight because they just got liposuction, and e) they're bored out of their minds, which leads to the purchase of something like How to Cure Boredom. And while they're at it, How to Cure the Boredom That Ensues While Reading "How to Cure Boredom."

In present-day America, philosophy, the luxurious self-help section of yore, is seemingly unheard of: this broad, boundless discipline has been left to a handful of 35-year-old perpetual students, their professors, about nine writers, and let's say six practicing philosophers. Who's buying the rest of the philosophy books? N-o-b-o-d-y. Why buy Emerson when you can buy Dr. Phil? Indeed, why buy Dr. Phil when you can watch Dr. Phil on television? Then again, why in God's name would you want to look at Dr. Phil for an hour? Buy Dr. Phil.

No, morons, buy Emerson. Or, if the word 'transcendentalist' is too frightening to you, buy Bertrand Russell. Sure, Bert refers to humans as "men," which provokes needless feminist outbursts; he's been dead for nearly 40 years; the covers of his books aren't catchy or colorful; and he doesn't profess to be able to cure your misplacement-of-car-keys problem in 'nine easy steps.' Quite the opposite. Without being an elitist, Russell expects his readers to appreciate the long, variegated legacy of philosophy, literature, and art, because it is through these media that he retrieves some of his "advice." The pleasure in reading this book lies in the following: the book is so all-encompassing, I will venture, that it can cure almost anything that may result in misplacing car keys or eating too many Entenmann's cakes.

It is my firm belief that Russell's book, The Conquest of Happiness, published 75 years ago, is the only self-help book needed by anyone who is not necessarily unhappy, but looking for a synthesized account of every common human neurosis, taught with reference to the philosophers of the past who — would you believe it — were humans and had neuroses. In each chapter of the book, Russell discusses typical causes of unhappiness, which I will rename for your ego's safety as 'being in some way at odds with the world.' Sample chapter titles are: Competition; Boredom and Excitement; Envy; Persecution Mania; Fatigue; Affection; The Family; and Work. Anything I have not mentioned, believe me, you will find in this book.

Russell's main preoccupation is, naturally, the ego. How do we treat it well without pampering it? How do we escape from it? When does one's conscience become a hindrance? When does the conscience deserve a slap on the wrist for not being conscientious enough? How do we fit into the world? How do we enjoy our time here? It's a human's role to feel good while they're alive, but it's easy to "accidentally" cross over into the realm of self-involvement and sin. Where do we draw the line?