Reading “Sophie’s World”
A Critical Reading of Sophie’s World: When Philosophy Forgets to Examine Itself
Sophie’s World is a critically acclaimed fantasy novel that doubles as an accessible introduction to the history of Western philosophy. Written by Norwegian former high school philosophy teacher Jostein Gaarder in the 1990s, it has been frequently featured on recommended reading lists for young adults in many countries since its publication.
The story begins when 14-year-old Norwegian schoolgirl Sophie receives an enigmatic letter from an anonymous sender, containing only two questions: “Who are you?” and “Where does the world come from?” The first half of the book is essentially a child-friendly version of Bertrand Russell’s The History of Western Philosophy. Readers learn about notable thinkers and their ideas in chronological order, from Ancient Greece to Existentialism, as Sophie receives lessons from a mysterious philosopher named Alberto Knox. The second half, which begins after Sophie’s garden party, shifts into a chaotic, whimsical, Alice in Wonderland-style fantasy.
Sophie’s World is a helpful introduction to philosophy not only for teens, but for adult readers as well. It offers historical context and real-life applications of concepts that are often difficult to grasp. I appreciated that it includes Darwin and Freud, who are usually excluded from traditional philosophy texts. While many would argue that these two were not philosophers, their inclusion is fitting given the book’s focus on questions of mind and consciousness.
However, as a work of fiction, the novel is rather weak. Its narrative lacks emotional depth, and the characters are underdeveloped. It feels as though the author prioritized his educational aims over literary storytelling. That said, my deeper concern lies elsewhere.
As I continued reading, I became increasingly uncomfortable with the dynamic between Sophie and her teacher. Though the story frames their relationship as a noble, Socratic mentorship, it more closely resembles the myth of Pygmalion: an older man shaping a young girl into his intellectual ideal. Sophie gradually abandons her emotional world and family life, all under Knox’s guidance. Her lack of psychological struggle when she chooses to leave her family and her “reality” behind is unsettling. It feels less like an awakening and more like the ideological grooming of a bright but impressionable teenager.
In that sense, the novel reads more like Alberto Knox’s World. He is the central authority, the gatekeeper of meaning, and the one directing Sophie’s transformation. It is his worldview, not hers, that drives the story forward.
This reflects a deeper issue in Western philosophy itself: its long-standing cognitive and cultural bias. Philosophy is often revered as the pinnacle of human intelligence, yet the version we inherit has been largely shaped by a narrow range of minds — overwhelmingly male, and often marked by traits common in what we now describe as autistic cognition. These include a need for order, a discomfort with ambiguity, and a drive to discover universal laws. Immanuel Kant’s famously rigid daily walks reflect not only discipline, but also a deeper desire for certainty and control, which is often seen as patterns familiar in autistic cognition.
These traits have proven powerful, even necessary, for philosophical inquiry. Autistic minds are often skilled in pattern recognition, abstract thought, and systemic reasoning. The fear of uncertainty, which is a common feature of autistic minds, can fuel a relentless search for foundational truths. But over time, this cognitive style has become enshrined as the gold standard of intelligence itself (at least in the modern West), while other ways of knowing, such as emotional intelligence, relational insight, embodied wisdom have been sidelined.
In this sense, philosophy has long been dominated by a rational, male and often neurodivergent cognitive style: one that values abstraction, control, and certainty.
In Sophie’s World, this bias is quietly but consistently reinforced. Emotion and family are implicitly devalued; what matters most is the abstract pursuit of truth, even at the cost of lived experience. Female characters around Sophie and Hilde are portrayed as if they are obstacles to the girls’ philosophical awakening. Their mothers, in particular, are depicted as trivial, emotionally reactive, or irrelevant.
The novel never interrogates this framing. Instead, it promotes a worldview in which male authority, rational inquiry, and philosophical detachment are celebrated, while relationality and care are treated as distractions. Gaarder seems to genuinely believe that the search for “truth” is inherently noble and heroic, and that it sometimes demands sacrifice. In Sophie’s case, this means losing her world entirely. If you pay attention, the author’s ideological stance becomes visible quite early. Knox’s criticism of the school system for teaching only trivialities while ignoring bigger questions like the origin of the universe mirrors Plato’s famous maxim: “The unexamined life is not worth living.” Ironically, this ideal reveals philosophy’s own blind spot: its failure to examine the cognitive bias of philosophers themselves.
This unconscious bias is also visible in Hilde’s storyline. In a telling moment, Hilde quietly favours the philosophy book from her father over the gold bracelet from her mother as if choosing intellect over affection is the more meaningful act. Once again, the story subtly suggests that emotional ties, especially those represented by women, are less important than abstract intellectual quests led by men.
I hope this critique is not mistaken for a feminist attack. It’s not. I love philosophy, and I have no problem with the fact that most great thinkers in history were men. My personal favourites are all male, with some even openly misogynistic in their writing.
What I want to draw attention to is not a gender issue per se, but an epistemological one: Who gets to define intelligence, or the meaning of life and one’s happiness, for that matter? When a single style of cognition is enshrined as the ultimate form of intelligence, it creates a hierarchy that excludes and undervalues others. It not only marginalises other ways of knowing, but also narrows our understanding of what a good or meaningful life is. De-centering that hierarchy by removing the privilege from philosophy as the pinnacle of intelligence could make the field more inclusive and alive. It would allow women, neurodivergent thinkers, and emotionally attuned minds to engage with philosophy without needing to suppress parts of themselves to be taken seriously.