This was a book Wendy and I read together over the course of a month—just a few short essays before bed each night. That context probably matters: I suspect that reading it slowly, letting the ideas settle, and chatting together about them gave it a resonance that I might have missed had I powered through it on my own.

The book is a series of short, thematic essays intended, as the title suggests, to inspire a little hope. Each reflection begins with a story, often drawn from art, literature or history, and builds into a modest argument or observation about what might make life feel a little less bleak. That structure—anecdote, idea, note of optimism—could easily have become formulaic, but I found it surprisingly satisfying. The source material is varied, and the tone strikes a compelling blend of melancholy and grace.

The first section, ‘reasons of darkness,’ is the one that stuck with me most. It’s unusual to find a self-described book of hope that begins in the mud: suffering is inevitable; people lust for vengeance; we are all profoundly flawed. But instead of glossing over these, the book leans in. These darker reflections feel honest rather than heavy, and it’s from this honesty that their hopefulness arises. I found that strangely comforting.

If you’ve read much from The School of Life, you’ll know the tone: measured, thoughtful, gently philosophical. But this volume stood out to me for its coherence: while none of the ideas felt new to me, seeing them collected and loosely stitched together under the banner of hope lent them fresh significance. It was less about new insights and more about the quiet joy of recognition, of seeing well-worn thoughts in new light.

Compared to On Confidence, which I read in one go, Reasons to be Hopeful felt more textured and rewarding. That may be less about the content and more about the way I read it: this is a book that benefits from being slowly savoured. Read too quickly and you might miss the point entirely.

I’m not sure it radically changed anything for me, but it did recalibrate the tone of my internal monologue a little. And that’s no small thing. At the end of a long day, it reminded Wendy and me of the good in the world, and helped us both frame those pre-sleep ruminations with a little more tenderness and a little less despair.

It turns out that hope, when served in measured doses, can be rather potent after all.

Having recently enjoyed On Confidence, I decided to delve deeper into the writing from The School of Life, and this charming little volume immediately caught my eye. Physically, it’s delightful: slim, cloth-bound, beautifully designed, and thoroughly pleasing to handle and read.

The book comprises a series of short, reflective chapters, each addressing aspects of emotional maturity, personal development, and growth. Rather than adopting the didactic tone of self-help guides, the writing is thoughtful and gently philosophical. It’s less about prescriptive solutions and more about offering insightful reflections.

While I enjoyed reading this, I didn’t encounter many novel ideas. Instead, its strength lies in how clearly and engagingly familiar concepts are presented. It serves as a valuable reminder of the importance of emotional growth, mindfulness, and self-awareness.

One aspect of the book that gave me pause was its critical stance towards formal education—an inherent theme of the book, suggesting schools overlook essential life lessons. Though I appreciated the book’s viewpoint, I found myself partially disagreeing. Schools might not prepare individuals comprehensively for every emotional or practical challenge in life, but it’s unreasonable to expect they fully should. Personal development is, after all, a lifelong endeavour extending far beyond the classroom.

Overall, What They Forgot to Teach You at School is a thoughtful, attractively presented book that I’d readily recommend. It may not revolutionise your worldview, but it might remind you of valuable lessons worth revisiting.