How to Know a Person

When was the last time you felt truly seen—not just noticed, but understood to the core of who you are? In How to Know a Person, David Brooks asks this question to reveal a profound truth: in a world obsessed with performance, productivity, and digital connection, we have forgotten how to understand one another deeply. Brooks argues that the foundational skill of being human is the ability to see and make others feel seen. Without it, relationships hollow out, societies fracture, and our sense of meaning dissolves.

Brooks contends that the act of knowing another person is not a casual gesture—it’s an ethical, emotional, and spiritual practice. To know someone well, he says, you must master the small, everyday acts that build trust and compassion: listening without judgment, asking insightful questions, and accompanying people through their pain and triumphs. Across its three parts—“I See You,” “I See You in Your Struggles,” and “I See You with Your Strengths”—Brooks takes readers on a journey toward becoming what he calls an Illuminator: someone who lights up others by paying deep, respectful attention.

The Crisis of Being Unseen

Brooks begins by diagnosing a cultural and moral illness. Over the past decades, he observes, Western society has shifted its focus from moral formation to career success. Schools teach us how to build résumés, not how to build relationships. The rise of social media gives us the illusion of intimacy while replacing genuine understanding with quick judgment. The result is what Brooks calls an epidemic of blindness: widespread loneliness, disconnection, and a loss of the basic skills required for empathy. Studies he cites show that Americans report less trust, more isolation, and soaring rates of despair. People are desperate, he writes, not for money or fame but for recognition—for someone to look at them with loving respect and say, “I see you.”

From Detachment to Illumination

Brooks’s own life mirrors this journey. Raised in a reserved household—“Think Yiddish, act British,” as he puts it—he learned early to repress emotions and retreat into his intellect. His transformation began after a group hug with Anne Hathaway and a panel of passionate theater artists—it jolted him into realizing that living detached from emotion was living withdrawn from life. From that moment, Brooks began learning what it means to be open-hearted, vulnerable, and wise. Yet openness alone wasn’t enough: wisdom, he discovered, rests on social skill. To be fully human, one must learn the craft of seeing people well.

Brooks divides the world into two types: Diminishers, who make others feel small and unseen, and Illuminators, who radiate curiosity and respect. Diminishers stereotype, judge, and withdraw. Illuminators, by contrast, possess what Brooks calls “the brightness of care” that helps others see themselves clearly and feel valued. To illustrate, he describes an engineer named Harry Nyquist, whose coworkers at Bell Labs were mysteriously more productive. They discovered it wasn’t his technical skill—it was his ability to listen deeply and ask questions that made people think harder and trust more.

The Craft of Seeing

Seeing others well is not instinctual; it’s a craft learned through practice. Brooks borrows from psychology, acting, biography, teaching, and therapy to show how professionals across fields cultivate this art. The core skill, he argues, is empathic accuracy—the capacity to perceive what another person is feeling and thinking. Yet we tend to overestimate our abilities. Studies reveal that even close friends and family correctly read one another’s thoughts only about 35 percent of the time. Couples grow less perceptive as marriages lengthen, because they trap each other in outdated versions of who they used to be. To know another person, Brooks says, means constantly updating your understanding of them as they grow and change.

Why This Matters Now

The stakes of this skill extend beyond relationships; they define our collective survival. In pluralistic democracies—where people of different backgrounds must coexist—trust depends on our ability to look across difference and say, “I’m beginning to see you.” Whether in business, education, friendship, or politics, Brooks warns that when we fail to see others fully, alienation and resentment grow. The only antidote is to cultivate moral empathy: to sense, not just intellectually understand, the world through another’s eyes.

In this book, Brooks invites you to transform how you attend to the people around you. He shows through stories—like Frederick Buechner mourning his father or Deeogratias escaping genocide in Burundi—that true understanding changes lives. To know someone, Brooks writes, is a sacred act of creation: when you “beam the light of your attention” on another, they blossom. Learning this art is not only the path to compassion—it is the essence of wisdom itself.

David Brooks introduces the idea of Illuminators—people who have trained themselves in the art of truly seeing others. In a world full of Diminishers who overlook, stereotype, or judge, Illuminators make people around them feel valued, respected, and understood. They have learned what Brooks calls the moral art of attention: the ability to cast light toward others so they recognize their own worth.

The Moral Act of Attention

Brooks tells the story of a ninety-three-year-old teacher, LaRue Dorsey, whose stern demeanor transformed into joy when greeted by her friend Jimmy Dorrell—who shook her shoulders and shouted, “You’re the best!” In that instant, another facet of her soul emerged. Brooks calls this Illumination: the act of attention that brings forth different versions of a person. Psychiatrist Iain McGilchrist captures this idea: “Attention is a moral act—it brings aspects of things into being.” To attend with warmth, rather than cold judgment, is to help someone grow into the person they wish to be.

Character Traits of Illuminators

Brooks lists essential qualities of the Illuminator’s gaze:

• Tenderness: The ability to see others gently, like Rembrandt’s portraits that reveal the dignity behind every imperfection.
• Receptivity: Overcoming self-centeredness to be truly open. Rowan Williams describes this as keeping the mind “slack and attentive at the same time.”
• Active Curiosity: The explorer’s heart—wondering how others live, believe, and feel, as novelist Zadie Smith once did by imagining life in her friends’ homes.
• Affection and Generosity: Seeing others not as data points but as souls with infinite value.
• Holism: Refusing to reduce people to categories. As Tolstoy wrote, “People are like rivers—always changing but remaining themselves.”

Wisdom in Attention

Brooks connects this to philosopher Iris Murdoch’s idea that morality begins not in rules, but in “just and loving attention.” Murdoch believed that evil happens when people fail to see others correctly and treat them as objects of judgment. Goodness, conversely, is seeing another person clearly—casting a stable, loving gaze on their complexity. Brooks demonstrates this through psychologist Mary Pipher, who sees patients not as broken subjects but as people doing the best they can. For Pipher, therapy isn’t about fixing; it’s about paying attention “which is the purest form of love.”

Illuminators practice this skill daily, often in inconspicuous ways—hosting gatherings where everyone feels embraced, disagreeing without bitterness, listening when it’s hard. Brooks reminds us that these acts of attention are as significant as heroic deeds. Each time you truly see someone, you participate in moral creation—you make both yourself and the world more whole.

Brooks warns that we live amid what he calls an epidemic of blindness: a social collapse of empathy and moral understanding. Loneliness, sadness, and distrust pervade modern life. Data support his claim—depression and suicide rates have surged, friendships have thinned, and few Americans feel truly known. When people go unseen, they retreat, harden, and lash out. The issue, Brooks contends, isn’t merely psychological—it’s moral.

How We Lost the Ability to See

Mid-20th-century Western institutions abandoned their moral mission. Schools ceased teaching character, religious institutions lost influence, and parents turned toward “acceptance parenting”—cheerleading achievement rather than shaping virtue. The result is widespread social ignorance. We’ve produced technically skilled workers but emotionally stunted citizens. Brooks cites James Davison Hunter’s observation that American culture provides “no moral horizons beyond the self.” We’ve created generations who know how to succeed but not how to care.

The Consequences

Disconnected individuals become suspicious and bitter. Loneliness doesn’t just hurt—it distorts reality. Brooks quotes Giovanni Frazzetto: “It becomes a deceiving filter through which we see ourselves, others, and the world.” Unseen people often turn their pain outward. He ties this to politics—resentful groups transform their unmet hunger for recognition into anger and cruelty. Francis Fukuyama’s concept of “low-trust societies” comes alive in Brooks’s analysis: without empathy, civic cooperation collapses, replaced by resentment-based tribes.

The Way Forward

The antidote to moral blindness is what Brooks calls moral formation. We must restore education in social and emotional skills—teaching youth to listen, disagree, forgive, and serve. Unlike political ideology, moral formation doesn’t divide people; it repairs the community by reminding us that character is relational. As Brooks phrases it, “We need to rediscover ways to teach moral and social skills.” The ability to see others well isn’t optional—it’s civilization’s survival skill.

This chapter serves as both diagnosis and call to action. Our broken relationships fuel toxic politics, while our cold institutions perpetuate loneliness. Brooks invites readers to reverse this decline, beginning in their own homes and schools—with small moments of illumination that rebuild trust, one human connection at a time.

Seeing someone deeply is only the beginning. The next step, Brooks writes, is accompaniment—walking beside others in their ordinary rhythms of life. Drawing on naturalist Loren Eiseley’s essay “The Flow of the River,” Brooks likens companionship to floating in the current beside another person: not leading, not fixing, simply being present as they move through life’s waters.

Patience and Presence

To accompany someone well, you must slow down. Philosopher Simone Weil called this “negative effort”—the discipline of holding back and letting moments unfold at their own pace. True friendship emerges with lingerable people—those you want to stay beside long after dinner ends. Accompaniment teaches patience because personal truths can’t be forced; they’re revealed only when safety and trust exist.

Play and Spontaneity

Play, Brooks insists, is one of the great bonding forces in life. Whether through shared games, humor, or creative collaboration, play unlocks authenticity and trust. He recounts his own mornings playing with his infant son in Brussels—a period when their bond was forged not through words but through laughter and touch. “I knew him best,” Brooks recalls, “though we’d never had a conversation.” In play, companionship becomes effortless—you connect not to achieve, but to be.

Other-Centeredness and Humility

Accompaniment requires humility: surrendering the need to control. Brooks tells of volunteering to assist his son’s baseball coach—only to dominate the process with “brilliant suggestions.” Realizing his mistake, he learned to respect others’ autonomy. As Pope Paul VI said, “Modern man listens more willingly to witnesses than teachers.” To accompany someone is not to command, but to attest—you are there, not to direct the journey, but to honor it.

The Power of Showing Up

Sometimes accompaniment means simply showing up. Brooks shares moving cases: medical students comforting their professor after her husband’s death, and friends silently surrounding a grieving bridesmaid. No words were exchanged, yet compassion echoed. Poet David Whyte calls this “the ultimate touchstone of friendship”—the privilege of walking with someone, even briefly, on a journey impossible to face alone. Accompaniment, Brooks concludes, is the lived form of empathy—an other-centered presence that radiates loyalty and care.

Most people think empathy is instinctive—an automatic gush of compassion. Brooks disagrees. He argues that empathy is a disciplined skill with three interlocking components: mirroring, mentalizing, and caring. Understanding them allows you to feel with others while maintaining clarity and helpfulness.

Mirroring Emotions

Mirroring means physically feeling what another person feels. Your body unconsciously mimics their posture, facial expressions, and tone. Brooks draws on neuroscientist Lisa Feldman Barrett’s research on emotional granularity—the ability to distinguish subtle emotions like irritation from anxiety. High-granularity people can read emotional complexity better; low-granularity people perceive only “mad” or “sad.” Developing this skill requires literature, art, and reflection—activities that expand your emotional palette.

Mentalizing Experience

Mentalizing goes beyond feeling—it means understanding why others feel what they do. Borrowing Adam Smith’s idea of “projective empathy,” Brooks explains that we interpret others’ emotions through the lens of our own memories. Seeing a friend humiliated at work, you recall your own embarrassment and infer their pain. Good mentalizers, however, avoid projection; they don’t assume others experience emotions identically—they stay curious.

Caring in Action

Caring turns empathy into moral engagement. It’s not enough to feel; you must act constructively. Brooks contrasts empty sympathy with effective kindness: offering what the other person needs, not what comforts you. His example of Kate Bowler—a writer with cancer—shows this beautifully. Bowler’s friends didn’t pity her; they gave her normal gifts, made jokes, and brought delight. Empathy becomes power when it restores dignity, not when it dramatizes suffering.

The Spectrum of Empathy

Psychologist Simon Baron-Cohen describes seven levels of empathy—from zero (indifference) to six (deep, intuitive warmth). Brooks finds most people fall between four and six—they care but fear vulnerability. For him, empathy grows through deliberate practice: contact theory (spending time with diverse groups), close observation (as actors like Viola Davis do), and emotion spotting (using Marc Brackett’s “mood meter” to name emotions). The mastery of empathy, Brooks says, doesn’t just make you kind—it transforms your perception itself. “What you feel alters your sight and hearing.” When you learn to feel safely, you begin to see the world more clearly.

Suffering, Brooks teaches, can destroy—but it can also deepen human understanding. People who endure loss or pain have the chance to reconstruct themselves, to see life freshly. In stories ranging from Barbara Lazear Ascher’s grief after her husband’s death to Frederick Buechner’s lifelong processing of his father’s suicide, Brooks shows that pain reshapes worldview and reveals hidden depths of empathy.

Trauma and the Reconstruction of Meaning

Trauma shatters what psychologist Stephen Joseph calls “the assumptive world”—our unconscious belief that life is fair and controllable. After tragedy, people either cling to old models (“I’ll keep going as before”) or create new ones (“This changes everything”). Growth requires accommodation: accepting pain as transformative. Ascher writes of her husband’s final days, “It was as though certain death had granted us an extra life.” Brooks reveals that facing grief openly, rather than steel-heartedly, allows healing and wisdom to emerge.

Excavating the Past

Brooks urges a practice of excavation—revisiting and reinterpreting personal suffering. He describes exercises to help friends understand each other’s stories: asking “In our family, what must you never do?” or writing “This Is Your Life” summaries from another’s point of view. Psychologist James Pennebaker’s “expressive writing” method also appears—writing freely for twenty minutes to uncover repressed emotions. Through such acts, experiences become narrative; pain becomes understanding.

Character Through Compassion

Brooks contrasts two moral traditions. The old “warrior ethic” valued self-mastery—stoic suppression of emotion (as in Washington or de Gaulle). The new Illuminator ethic views character as a social practice: cultivating empathy, presence, and compassion. True moral maturity, he insists, is relational—it’s the wisdom learned by walking with others through suffering. As Iris Murdoch wrote, virtue means “piercing the veil of selfish consciousness to join the world as it really is.” In grief and compassion, we find not isolation but depth—the capacity to know others fully.

Brooks turns to personality—the energy each person brings into a room. Using psychology’s Big Five traits (extroversion, conscientiousness, neuroticism, agreeableness, and openness), he helps readers see how these traits shape perception and behavior. Personality, he argues, is both a gift and a lifelong craft to be refined through experience.

Extroversion and Conscientiousness

Extroverts like George W. Bush thrive on warmth and action; they see rewards everywhere. Conscientious individuals, such as the obsessively organized “Ronald” Brooks describes, find meaning in order, planning, and control. Extroversion energizes social spheres; conscientiousness sustains achievement. Both, however, have shadow sides—recklessness and rigidity. The art lies in balance.

Neuroticism and Agreeableness

Neurotic individuals feel pain deeply—they spot threats quickly and worry perpetually. Yet their sensitivity can make them prophets or healers, perceiving suffering others overlook. Agreeable people radiate kindness but risk indecision and burnout. Brooks jokes, “Marry agreeableness, avoid neuroticism—but if you’re neurotic, find someone just as neurotic.” Each trait contributes to the social symphony.

Openness and Growth

Those high in openness—curious explorers like Emily Brontë—see life as artistic creation. They resist convention and hunger for new experience. Brooks connects openness to wisdom: it allows people to tolerate ambiguity and evolve. (Compare Carl Jung’s insight that “what was true in youth becomes false in age”—personality must change.)

Personality as Moral Education

Most surprisingly, Brooks reveals that personality is malleable. Research shows it can shift within six weeks of deliberate practice. People generally become more agreeable, conscientious, and emotionally stable with age. Like wine, personalities mature. Understanding traits helps you see others clearly—not to judge, but to tune relational harmony. Personality, Brooks concludes, is the grammar of the soul—the pattern through which we express who we are.

The culmination of Brooks’s journey is wisdom—the capacity to see another human being in their full depth and complexity. Wisdom, he argues, isn’t intellect or cleverness. It is the practiced ability to witness others’ stories, affirm their struggles, and help them discern meaning.

Witnessing and Receptivity

Wise people don’t lecture; they listen. They create spaces of hospitality where others can bring their pain or confusion. Brooks draws from therapist Lori Gottlieb and psychologist Parker Palmer: wisdom begins when someone helps you see yourself clearly. The wise friend “makes your obvious solution emerge” rather than prescribes it. Wisdom is presence—a disciplined attention that transforms understanding into peace.

Learning from Stories

Brooks illustrates wisdom through stories. Tracy Kidder’s bond with Deo in Strength in What Remains shows how patient witnessing reveals humanity beyond trauma. The film Good Will Hunting models critique with care—the therapist sees through Will’s arrogance to his fear: “You’ve never looked at a woman and been totally vulnerable.” Wisdom means naming what people subconsciously know but can’t face alone.

The Social Nature of Wisdom

Wisdom, Brooks insists, is communal. It flourishes in relationships—what Palmer calls “communities of truth.” When people explore together, they form what cognitive scientist Douglas Hofstadter describes as “shared loops of thought.” In true dialogue, minds interpenetrate; empathy becomes collective insight. Brooks’s final story of Kathryn Schulz’s family surrounding her dying father captures this perfectly: love becomes understanding. To be wise is to see others, in joy and grief, as radiantly whole.

Brooks concludes humbly: he’s still learning. Wisdom is not something you possess—it’s a way of being with people. The more loving one, as W. H. Auden wrote, must simply strive to be the more seeing one.