The delivery room is the moniker Mira Braverman‘s husband, Peter, ascribes to the office in their North London flat from which she operates her psychotherapy practice. Over a period of just over a year, the reader bears vicarious witness to the trials and tribulations of her patients while Mira struggles to prevent her own pain intruding upon the therapeutic hour.
This is a beautiful novel about what it is to be human: about birth and death; grief and yearning; and the boundaries between public and private. It’s about conflict, from minor misunderstandings to the fragmentation of nations and all-out war. It’s about national identity, about insiders and outsiders and the risks entailed in genuinely getting to know another human being. Like therapy itself, it’s a gentle novel woven with textured detail, absorbing and gripping while proceeding patiently, eschewing formulaic tropes and attention-grabbing gimmicks, towards some deeper truth.
The narrative progresses from multiple points of view. Although, at least initially, I balked at the head hopping, it’s successful in both adding layers of nuance to the story and in highlighting one of the most interesting aspects of the therapeutic relationship. Each of Mira’s patients meets a plump woman in late middle age with an Eastern European accent, but what they make of this varies with their own personalities and needs. One perceives her as maternal; another sees a Russian or Czech intellectual; the one who comes closest to seeing her as she really is snipes at her for being a Serbian at the time of the Balkan conflict. Yet there’s a touch of humour in their different assumptions about the abstract painting hanging on her wall.
This is a beautiful novel about what it is to be human: about birth and death; grief and yearning; and the boundaries between public and private. It’s about conflict, from minor misunderstandings to the fragmentation of nations and all-out war. It’s about national identity, about insiders and outsiders and the risks entailed in genuinely getting to know another human being. Like therapy itself, it’s a gentle novel woven with textured detail, absorbing and gripping while proceeding patiently, eschewing formulaic tropes and attention-grabbing gimmicks, towards some deeper truth.
The narrative progresses from multiple points of view. Although, at least initially, I balked at the head hopping, it’s successful in both adding layers of nuance to the story and in highlighting one of the most interesting aspects of the therapeutic relationship. Each of Mira’s patients meets a plump woman in late middle age with an Eastern European accent, but what they make of this varies with their own personalities and needs. One perceives her as maternal; another sees a Russian or Czech intellectual; the one who comes closest to seeing her as she really is snipes at her for being a Serbian at the time of the Balkan conflict. Yet there’s a touch of humour in their different assumptions about the abstract painting hanging on her wall.
Although Mira was one of the most convincing therapists I’ve encountered so far in this series, I did have a few gripes about her approach. The most serious was her apparent lack of awareness of the need for ongoing clinical supervision of her work or even, as the pressures in her own life escalated, for personal therapy to help her remain focused upon her patients’ needs. I was also surprised to find her referred to as a doctor when there was no evidence that she’d earned such a title, and that she should be disorganised about billing her patients (p192) when appropriate management of the therapeutic boundaries would have been drummed into her during her (Kleinian) training. I also wondered how many real-life psychoanalytically orientated therapists would take on a woman grieving for her stillborn child only one week after the event.
Despite these threats to the therapist’s credibility, this novel paints a convincing picture of the therapeutic encounter, reminiscent of Stephen Grosz’s collection of anonymised case studies, The Examined Life. The therapist doesn’t offer the bereaved false hope or platitudes (p82):
Despite these threats to the therapist’s credibility, this novel paints a convincing picture of the therapeutic encounter, reminiscent of Stephen Grosz’s collection of anonymised case studies, The Examined Life. The therapist doesn’t offer the bereaved false hope or platitudes (p82):
Mira had to find a way to give Kate a place within herself to hold the child that she had lost. Others would tell her to move on, to put it behind her; to go on holiday, or buy a dog, or take up gardening, anything to move her attention from the loss at hand. Some might urge her to try to get pregnant again, thinking that if she had another child she would be all right. Mira knew her role in the cacophony would be to give the woman space and quiet and to let her know, gently, that it would never be all right again.
While therapy can sometimes feel tedious or self-indulgent (p172), especially in comparison to the horrors portrayed on the nightly news, each person’s pain deserves an audience, there is no hierarchy of hurt (p352). The unpredicted friendship between Mira’s step-daughter-in-law and one of her patients, illustrates the value of the therapist’s neutrality and separateness from the patient’s world (p346):
Caroline still found the connection … unnerving. Hearing domestic stories about her therapist was a strange unmasking, like seeing one’s Latin teacher in the pub after school. The authority out of role.
Although I felt that Mira could have taken more care to prevent an abrupt ending with one of her patients (p315), the ending of the novel itself was extremely satisfying in reflecting the continuities of life (p371):
‘Thank you,’ the therapist replied, typically, her hands folded together, her face that of a sphinx. The words signalled the end of their non-conversation, and Jess settled down into the chair to begin telling her story.
I would strongly recommend this novel for anyone interested in exploring the human condition. Thanks to Susan Osborne for suggesting it for this series and to my local library for sourcing my copy.
When I began this series just over a year ago, I plucked a number out of the air, and had no idea whether I’d find nine fictional psychologists or psychotherapist to write about. So it’s quite a milestone to have completed my ninth with still a few waiting in the wings to come under my spotlight. So I intend to continue with this series but, before moving on to berating yet another imagined therapist, I’m planning a summary post taking up the challenge posed by Charli Mills in commenting on my review of By Blood, to offer some guidelines on writing more credible therapists . In the meantime, do have a look at any of the other posts in this series you might have missed. Now, over to you …
When I began this series just over a year ago, I plucked a number out of the air, and had no idea whether I’d find nine fictional psychologists or psychotherapist to write about. So it’s quite a milestone to have completed my ninth with still a few waiting in the wings to come under my spotlight. So I intend to continue with this series but, before moving on to berating yet another imagined therapist, I’m planning a summary post taking up the challenge posed by Charli Mills in commenting on my review of By Blood, to offer some guidelines on writing more credible therapists . In the meantime, do have a look at any of the other posts in this series you might have missed. Now, over to you …
RSS Feed
