My Madness Saved Me: The Madness and Marriage of Virginia Woolf. Thomas Szasz. New Brunswick, NJ: Transaction Publishers, 2006, 154 pp., $29.95 As Sartre said, "The Jew is one whom other men consider a Jew; that is the simple truth from which we must start." Similarly, a mentally ill person is one whom others consider mentally ill; we deal here with the language of stigma, not the language of nosology. Thomas Szasz In My Madness Saved Me: The Madness and Marriage of Virginia Woolf, Thomas Szasz diverges from his usual approach to mental illness, which is a more or less abstract critique of the moral, legal, logical, and conceptual bases upon which modern psychiatry has situated itself. In this book, Szasz takes as his subject not the flawed logic and spurious science of psychiatry, but a specific, famous individual human being as the focus of all the contradictions inherent in that impaired logic and that pseudoscience. For those of us who respect his work, this is a welcome and long overdue departure. Szasz begins with a lengthy preface running to almost 13 pages, in which he introduces Virginia Woolf in general terms, and he lays out the fundamentals of his approach in a way we have not seen before. "I view all behavior," he says, "'mental illness,' 'psychiatric diagnosis,' 'mental hospitalization,' and 'psychiatric treatment,' according to what we might call the Shakespearean or theatrical model" (p. 3). He quotes from As You Like It: "All the world's a stage / And all the men and women merely players, " and he accuses Virginia Woolf of living, in Alfred Adler's words, a lifelie, of denying "what one knows to be true while pretending it is not." Adler, Szasz reminds us, believed that this self-deception was the cause of mental illness. This is a view that is not confined to the mental health professions. One of my favorite disquisitions on Shakespeare is Cavell's Disowning Knowledge in Six Plays of Shakespeare (1987). (The six plays are King Lear, Othello, Coriolanus, Hamlet, The Winter's Tale, and Antony and Cleopatra; see also Wynne, 2004.) As we have seen in his other works, Szasz states his position clearly: "Madness-if we are willing to look life in the face-is neither particularly difficult to understand nor especially interesting. It seems that way only because we mystify it. . . . The ingredients are anger, aggression, fear, frustration, confusion, exhaustion, isolation, conceit . . . cowardliness, and difficulty getting along with others" (p. 12). He argues that "Virginia paid dearly for her gutlessness: as a person, she deprived herself of motherhood; as a writer, of moral seriousness" (p. 39). And also: "The problem was not that she denied her 'illness,' as Leonard [her husband] put it, and as psychiatrists love to put it. The problem was that she was a coward who preferred to frame her problematic life situation in terms of mental illness instead of framing it as the problem of what to do with the rest of her life" (p. 86). That is, she framed it as a pseudomedical problem rather than as an existential predicament. The reader will note that Szasz, as a proponent of the existential-moral view of life and of life's meshugaas, is quite comfortable with, and unembarrassed by, words like "gutless" or "coward," words that will horrify those espousing a more "scientific" view of the human condition. "When a woman displays a dramatic despair shortly after delivering a baby," says Szasz, "psychiatrists say she suffers from postpartum psychosis. I say she suffers from the realization of having made an irreversible, life-altering decision, a choice that, in retrospect, she regrets, and one having consequences with which she feels unable to cope" (p. 27). He continues: "The core meaning of the term 'mental illness,' let us not forget, always lay, and continues to lie, in its power to annul ordinary (rational) intentionality. The view that Virginia's mad behavior was unintentional and meaningless (irrational) is shared by all of the compilers and editors of the vast corpus of her work" (p. …
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