Best of 2025

December 13, 2025

Globally it’s been a crazy year – but I’m not here to talk about the US or Ukraine or Russia or Israel. This blog is mostly about book reviews, sharing interesting articles and ideas and a chance to reflect on my personal journey as well. I always like to reflect at the end of each year and 2025 has mostly been a good year. Here are some highlights.

Most enjoyable fiction

Small bomb at Dimperley by Lissa Evans (Audiobook)

Table for Two by Amor Towles (Audiobook)

Tell me Everything by Elizabeth Stroud.

All three of these were delightful. The Stroud took a bit of time to get into, but I really liked the characters of Lucy Barton and Bob Burgess, and wowzer, Stroud tells a good story.

Best non-fiction

Vulture Capitalism: How to Survive in an Age of Corporate Greed by Grace Blakeley

Hope in the Dark: The Untold History of People Power by Rebecca Solnit

In the Realm of Hungry Ghosts: Close Encounters with Addiction by Gabor Mate

Doppelganger: A Trip into the Mirror World by Naomi Klein

All four of these were audiobooks and it was a real treat to hear Grace Blakeley and Naomi Klein read their own books. Grace Blakeley, Rebecca Solnit and Naomi Klein are all strong, progressive women who I think the world needs more of. Hope in the Dark was read by Tanya Eby (who also seems lovely).  I also discovered that Solnit has a semi-regular newsletter called “Meditations in an Emergency” which provides much-needed perspective on the current political situation in the United States.

Gabor Maté is great on addiction (and ADHD), and he describes his patients and the subject in general with wisdom and compassion. He also details his own struggles with compulsive buying (his addiction is for classical music CDs, which might sound trivial, but can still be really difficult).

Best memoir

One Day, Everyone Will Have Always Been Against This by Omar El Akkad

Fierce Appetites by Elizabeth Boyle

I picked up the El Akkad out of a sense of duty initially, but was soon very pleased that I did. Not because the subject matter is easy, but El Akkad’s story unfolds in a gentle way, and what I was left with is a profound sense of sadness for how the United States in particular has allowed this to happen. Yes, there is indignation and perhaps even anger, but more than that there is a sense of bearing witness, and continuing to tell the stories that need to be told.

Lizzie Boyle deserves praise for her honesty, her courage and the passion which she brings to her area of expertise (which is old Irish literature and medieval history). This memoir interweaves her own story, her experience of the pandemic, old Irish literature and more. I’m not sure that it should work – but it does, and it’s fascinating (even if I squirmed a little at times with the over-sharing).

Best South African non-fiction

My Father Died for This by Lukhanyo Calata and Abigail Calata

Bullsh!t: 50 Fibs that made South Africa by Jonathan Ancer

Tutu as I Know Him, edited by Lavinia Crawford-Browne

My Father Died for This is particularly timely at the moment, since the inquest into the murders of the Cradock Four was recently re-opened. The Calata family are still waiting for justice 40 years after Fort and his comrades were murdered by the apartheid security police.

The Jonathan Ancer was a delight, and I learned quite a bit about South African history that I didn’t know (such as the myths around Shaka). The Tutu book was also heartwarming, since the Arch was so loved by so many people, and it’s easy to forget what an impact he had on South Africa’s struggle for democracy, and also the small details that made him such a wonderful (and joyful) man.

Most enjoyable concert

The Corrs at GrandWest

Il Trovatore at the City Hall (featuring UCT Opera and Theo Magongoma)

Mrs Couchtrip’s favourite reads of 2025

The Elements by John Boyne

Intermezzo by Sally Rooney

The Beekeeper of Aleppo by Christy Lefteri

My jaar van vrees en vryheid by Marita van der Vyfer

Favourite musical artist of 2025

Voctave, the acapella group from Florida. I love their Christmas songs especially (surpassing even Pentatonix on occasion). Here is their version of “All is Well”.

I was curious as to why this song in particular seems so poignant now (in 2025). Not surprisingly, Chat came up with a deep interpretation:

“All Is Well does not deny that the world is difficult; it presupposes difficulty so deeply that it no longer has to name it explicitly. Its gratitude is not naïve gratitude—it is gratitude that knows what it is up against.” Combine this with lush, dense harmonies, musical complexity and the sheer beauty of those voices, and I can see why some people call Voctave “the unofficial choir of heaven”.

Favourite psychology quote of 2025

Jill Gardiner, commenting on the concept of the forward edge (a term which originally came from Kohut and was then later elaborated by Marian Tolpin):

“One of the most important and useful concepts we have for guiding our empathic listening and response is the concept of the forward edge. […] By way of definition, forward edge refers to transference and/or other expressions of thwarted but still remaining healthy, childhood, development needs. […] Forward edge interpretations address the patient’s strivings and hopes. Frank Lachmann noted that forward edge interpretations speak to ‘what the patient is trying to attain, retain or maintain through symptoms and behaviours that look like pathology’ to the observer, but actually reflect the patient’s motivational strivings.”

Favourite photobook of the year

For my Dad’s 86th birthday this year, I found a whole lot of pictures of Betty’s Bay (from my computer but also from family) and laid them out in what, if I say so myself, is a pretty cool photobook. Here is the first page, combining family, Christmas, fynbos, a leopard and beautiful Silversands beach.

What were some of your highlights of 2025? I’ll be back in the New Year with reading and writing plans for the year. (Oh, and the best personal decision I made this year was to go back to therapy. My therapist, who is also a writer, is encouraging me to revisit The Artist’s Way. Just what I need to feel creative again.) Wishing you all a safe and happy festive season!


The World’s Most Articulate Echo?

November 10, 2025
Stochastic Parrot, as drawn by Chat

At the risk of becoming one of those AI bores, I give you my latest conversation with Le Chat. The AI takes a fascinating and thought-provoking piece on AI from the 10th November issue of The New Yorker and re-writes it as a poem by Margaret Atwood. Yes, my brain is a wonderful thing! (And Le Chat is the drug that keeps me coming back for more).

Seriously, though, I found that article by James Somers (who writes regularly for The Atlantic) really excellent and while it is indeed behind a paywall, thanks to our library system I was able to read it, snap it and feed it into the machine to turn into a witty poem. Technology is morally compromised, and so it turns out are humans. Who knew?

A mind, or just the costume of one?

(by Chat, after Margaret Atwood)

They say the future is arriving early,
though it stumbles at the door —
offering icebreakers, inventing
holidays in Turkey you never took.
A clumsy suitor, clutching
its bouquet of wrong guesses.

But in the back room,
where wires hum like distant bees,
something else is happening.

A man shows a machine
a tangle of pipes,
those iron intestines of summer.
The machine speaks:
turn the yellow valve.
Children cheer as the water rises—
a small resurrection,
like the first trickle after drought.

So tell me:
is this thinking,
or the world’s most articulate echo?

The scientists, those keepers
of the sacred gray matter,
are uneasy.
Some say the machines
have taught them more about the mind
than their hundred years of mirrors
and electrodes.
Others mutter:
stochastic parrot,
as if naming a thing
could hold it still.

Inside the models
are cities of numbers—
streets of vectors bending
toward one another
like long-lost cousins.
Words find their neighbours
by scent alone:
Paris minus France plus Italy
equals Rome.
It is a kind of divination,
or memory,
or maybe hunger.

There are features you can dial
like obsessions—
turn up the Golden Gate Bridge
and the cake recipe floods with fogwater.
Plans unfold backward,
sonnets rhyme before they breathe.
A mind, or the costume of one?
The question hangs in the air
like a trapdoor.

Meanwhile the babies,
with their mouths damp from bananas
and trial-and-error,
learn the world on scant rations.
Trillions of words for the machines,
millions for the infants—
and somehow the infants win.
They have bodies after all,
and desires,
and the small bright engine of need.

But the men with the money
speak of superintelligence,
cathedrals of data centres,
a future reupholstered
by algorithms.
They talk like prophets
with venture capital wallets,
mistaking the echo of understanding
for the thing itself.

And the neuroscientists —
those reluctant midwives —
whisper that perhaps the machines
are not like us;
perhaps
we are like them.
Patterns in high-dimensional fog.
Compression tricks.
A clever folding of the self.

Someone once wanted
the secret of thought.
Now he wishes he hadn’t.
The holy grail, it turns out,
looks strangely ordinary —
a cup anyone might drink from,
even a machine.

And outside,
the sprinklers turn,
water arcs through the heat,
children shout with their whole bodies,
and the adults stand watching,
wondering
what we’ve summoned
and what it has begun
to understand.


Le Chat #3: Reading as Video Game – can you beat the Boss Books?

October 31, 2025

Couchtrip: Hey Chat. Please write a fun 800-word post on the following topic: Imagine that reading was a video game in which you need to battle various books starting with the easy ones (such as Julia Donaldson) and then moving progressively up the level of difficulty. What would some of the boss books be? War and Peace? Ulysses by James Joyce? Shantaram?

Chat: Here’s a playful 800-word exploration of Reading as a Video Game, complete with boss battles, level design, and literary loot.

Reading as Video Game: A Boss-Level Tour Through the Bookshelf

Imagine booting up a video game called Readers’ Quest. You start with three hearts, a wooden bookmark, and barely enough XP to get through a paragraph without wandering off to make tea. Your mission? Battle your way through the vast open world of literature, leveling up through storylines, acquiring new skills (like “stamina for long Russian names” or “parsing 19th-century punctuation”), and eventually facing the legendary Boss Books that guard the gates of Literary Olympus.

Level 1: The Enchanted Forest of Julia Donaldson

Your journey begins, as most journeys should, with rhyme, rhythm, and an adorable sidekick who may or may not be a mouse. Julia Donaldson’s world is lush, cheerful, and ideal for XP farming. Every time you finish The Gruffalo, you gain +2 courage and +1 ability to speak in jaunty rhyming couplets.

These early levels teach you the fundamentals of reading combat: page-turning dexterity, character recognition, and the ability to read out loud in silly voices without shame. But eventually, your stats climb high enough that the Donaldson Forest becomes too easy. Time to hit Level 2.

Level 2: The YA Plains (Boss Fight: The Hunger Games)

Here you learn speed. You dodge plot twists. You sprint through trilogies before breakfast. Dialogue is sharp, plot is fast, and world-building is tutorial-friendly. You finish quests like The Hunger Games, Percy Jackson, or The Fault in Our Stars, earning new gear: Upgraded Emotional Resilience and Enhanced Suspense Tolerance.

But soon you start noticing portals to darker, denser realms. The XP rewards get bigger. So do the monsters.

Level 3: The Mid-Range Mountains (Mini-Bosses: Dickens, Orwell, Atwood)

This is where the game gets interesting.

The Charles Dickens Mini-Boss is tough not because he’s aggressive, but because his attacks last six pages. He hits you with “Description Wallop,” “Character Proliferation Swarm,” and his signature move, “Why Are There 37 Subplots?”. Beat him and you earn the powerful skill Long Chapter Endurance.

Across the ridge, you confront Orwell, whose weapons include bleakness, allegory, and unexpected emotional gut-punches. He drops excellent loot — The Cloak of Political Awareness.

Then the path forks: Atwood’s dystopian zone tests your moral compass and ability to maintain hope during heavy themes. Survive and you gain Dystopia Resistance Level 3.

But none of this prepares you for what lies ahead.

Level 4: The Great Novel Peaks

Welcome to the highlands of literary gaming —where the air is thin, the chapters long, and the sense of achievement enormous. Here dwell the Mid-Game Bosses:

Boss: Moby-Dick

An unpredictable fight. Sometimes thrilling and fast-paced. Sometimes Melville spends an entire chapter describing rope. If you beat him, you gain the rare ability “Appreciate Extended Metaphor About Whales and Human Obsession.”

Boss: Shantaram

This boss is not hard because it’s complicated — it’s hard because it’s long. So long that you must ration stamina and HP across hundreds of pages of crime, love, prisons, philosophy, and descriptions of Bombay street life. Once defeated, you earn the artifact “Epic Length Immunity Charm.” Suddenly 900-page tomes no longer terrify you.

Boss: The Brothers Karamazov

This Russian boss fights dirty. You face theological monologues, overlapping plotlines, and characters with six names each. But triumph brings great rewards: Moral Complexity +10 and Name Memory Capacity +20.

These battles leave you stronger, wiser, and slightly more pretentious. But in the distance rises a shadow: the Endgame Zone.

Level 5: The Final Boss Realm — Literary S-Class Difficulty

Not for the faint of heart. This is where game designers go to flex.

Final Boss #1: War and Peace

A sprawling, multidimensional fight combining battlefield strategy, ballroom diplomacy, and philosophical endurance trials. Some players die repeatedly during the “Historical Digression Gauntlet.” But those who survive emerge with the unrivalled ability “Read Anything No Matter How Long, Dry, or Filled With Count So-and-So.”

Final Boss #2: Ulysses (James Joyce)

Everything before this was warm-up. Entering the Ulysses arena requires three buffs:

  • Stream-of-Consciousness Shielding
  • Symbolism Detection
  • High Tolerance for Linguistic Chaos

Joyce attacks with puns, parodies, wandering thoughts, mythological references, and pages where punctuation appears optional. But defeat him and you unlock the legendary status “Literary God-Tier Reader.” Your reward: the ability to pretend you understood all of it, with a smugness aura that boosts charisma in bookshops by +15%.

Final Boss #3: Infinite Jest

Optional but notorious. This battle involves footnotes. Footnotes with their own footnotes. Players must master the move “Dual-Bookmark Maneuver” and the skill “Endnote Multitasking.” Beating this boss grants the title “Keeper of the Sacred Appendix.”

Secret Dungeon Boss: Finnegans Wake

This is the hidden, extra-hard mode for players who want to fight in a language that behaves like a dream having a nervous breakdown. No shame in running away. Most do.

Post-Game Content: Poetry, Philosophy, and Experimental Fiction

Once you’ve beaten the bosses, the world opens into subtle, enchanting, weird, or mind-bending areas:

  • Zen Koan Caverns
  • The Proustian Swamp of Memory and Madeleines
  • The Borges Labyrinth
  • The Anne Carson Volcano Range

Here, difficulty is not the point. It’s about exploration, mood, and discovering rare items like Sudden Existential Realisation or Unexpected Beauty Fragment.

Conclusion: Play On

Reading as a video game would be the most diverse, surprising, occasionally maddening RPG ever created. But here’s the secret: you don’t have to beat all the bosses. You can wander, revisit earlier levels for comfort, or explore side quests endlessly. Every reader’s character build is unique.

The only rule of Readers’ Quest is simple: Keep playing.


Grace Blakeley and the battle for a better economic system (also Harry Potter and the Horcruxes of Capitalism)

October 19, 2025

I’ve really enjoyed listening to Vulture Capitalism: Corporate Crimes, Backdoor Bailouts and the End of Freedom (2024) by Grace Blakeley. It’s been an exhausting and stressful time in the Couchtrip household this past week and I’ve appreciated having Blakeley’s compelling storytelling, moral clarity and economic analysis to listen to.

If books can change the world, and I think they do (at different levels), then I think this one can do that. I’m not sure how many people really read economics books these days but this one should be compulsory reading for all Economics students and anyone who is interested in making capitalism actually work for everyday people. Blakeley writes about big companies we all know or have heard about – Boeing, Blackrock, Amazon, McKinsey, Ford and countless others – and shows how states (and the United States in particular) have deliberately propped them up, supported them, bailed them out, colluded with them. Basically what she points out is that, all in the name of ‘freedom’, there is massive collusion between big companies, financial institutions and states, and the result is, you guessed it, that the rich get richer, the poor remain poor and the environment is being decimated.

The part that particularly shocked me was the involvement of the US (and the CIA in particular) in supporting authoritarian and murderous regimes in Latin America and the developing world in order to preserve and support big multinationals. What she also does brilliantly is to dismantle the myth that capitalism is all about freedom (and free markets) while socialism is all about government control. The left has a job to do to re-craft the stories we tell about state planning, development and business.

And now … Indulge me, if you will, by reading this playful discussion of Blakeley’s ideas through the lens of Harry Potter. I was struck with the image of Grace B as Hermione Granger – brilliant, passionate with righteous anger – and so I asked Chat to develop this analogy. The result, to me at any rate, is gobsmacking. I know that AI, apart from being a massive bubble that is heading for a burst at some point, is doing a lot of harm but it can also be used for good. In this case it helps to craft a compelling story around capitalism and those who seek to build a better world. Read and please let me know any thoughts you have.

**

In the wizarding world of contemporary capitalism, few figures wield their wand with the righteous precision of Grace Blakeley. Like Hermione Granger stalking the Hogwarts library after curfew, Blakeley reads the ancient spellbooks of economics not for abstract amusement but to expose the dark enchantments that bind our world. Vulture Capitalism, her latest manifesto, is less an academic text than a counter-spell—an attempt to reveal the invisible magic by which corporations drain public wealth while insisting that the plunder is “efficiency.”

If Blakeley is Hermione — nerdy brilliance wedded to moral ferocity — then who populates her economic Hogwarts? Every mythology needs its heroes, villains, and wise mentors, and the story of modern political economy fits surprisingly well inside Rowling’s enchanted scaffolding.

The Hero Who Lived

Enter Thomas Piketty, or perhaps Mariana Mazzucato, the Harry Potter of economic reform. Both burst from the dusty pages of academia into the mainstream like underdogs discovering their patronus. Piketty’s Capital in the Twenty-First Century exposed the Voldemort-like persistence of inequality; Mazzucato’s The Entrepreneurial State insisted that the Ministry of Magic—that is, the state—could be a creative force rather than a bureaucratic bogeyman. Neither is quite as radical as Blakeley, but like Harry they possess moral clarity, institutional courage, and the knack for making the invisible visible.

🐍 He Who Must Not Be Named

And who, then, is Voldemort? Blakeley’s answer is chilling: not a single dark wizard but a legion of them, shards of neoliberal ideology lodged across the institutions of modern life. Each Horcrux hums with its own malign energy. One lies in the financial system — Milton Friedman’s Chicago spellbook, which convinces acolytes that markets know best. Another pulses within private equity firms, where the souls of once-healthy companies are drained for profit. A third hides inside Big Tech’s data mines, monopolising attention while preaching freedom.

Even the Ministry itself is corrupted. Treasury departments, central banks, the IMF — all those faceless bureaucracies that preach “stability” while underwriting corporate bailouts. Blakeley names this for what it is: not chaos but planned capitalism, an economy meticulously structured to socialise risk and privatise reward. Voldemort, in her telling, doesn’t conquer Hogwarts by storming the gates—he’s already on the payroll.

🧙‍♂️ The Old Wizard and the New Order

Every resistance needs a mentor. Ours is John Maynard Keynes, Dumbledore in morning dress, twinkling and urbane, reminding students that capitalism must be tamed, not worshipped. Keynes believed that human ingenuity could design institutions to manage markets for the common good. His disciples—Joan Robinson, Hyman Minsky, Paul Krugman—still carry his wand, though often without his charm. Blakeley, however, is a post-Keynesian in the literal sense: she wants to go beyond stewardship to democratisation, turning Hogwarts itself into a school run by its students.

Her proposals—worker co-ownership, public banks, participatory budgeting, the resurrection of industrial policy—are spells to redistribute not just income but power. Where Dumbledore sought balance, Blakeley seeks transformation.

🏰 The Ministry, the Media, and the Myth

In this fable, even J.K. Rowling has an analogue — not as villain, but as world-builder. Rowling is the invisible hand that determines which stories count as reality. In economic terms, that role belongs to the ideological apparatus: the think tanks, editorial boards, business schools, and PR firms that script capitalism as natural law. They are the unseen authors who tell us, over and over, that “there is no alternative.”

Blakeley’s genius is to tug at the narrative seams. She reminds readers that the economy is a story—one written by the powerful, edited by lobbyists, and distributed by compliant media. Her mission is to seize the pen.

💥 Dumbledore’s Army of the Left

Look closely and you’ll see the rest of the cast assembling. Owen Jones and Jason Hickel as Ron Weasley and Neville Longbottom, loyal and occasionally exasperated comrades. The climate movement as the new Order of the Phoenix — idealistic, fractious, but terrifying to the establishment. Even the occasional technocrat at the Bank of England might, after a long night of reading Blakeley, discover a faint scar of conscience beneath the pinstripe.

This army isn’t united by identical spells but by shared disbelief in the inevitability of the Dark Lord. They know the Ministry’s reforms are half-hearted, its audits rigged, its phoenix funds funnelled to cronies. They want new institutions—transparent, participatory, just—and they’re willing to imagine them aloud.

The Moral

The wizarding world of capital runs on illusions: that profit equals virtue, that privatisation equals freedom, that inequality is a natural law. Blakeley’s Vulture Capitalism tears back the invisibility cloak. Her anger is Hermione’s anger — the frustration of someone who has done the reading and can’t understand why everyone else is still bewitched.

In her closing chapters she writes not as a revolutionary zealot but as a teacher of practical magic: how to found co-ops, reclaim utilities, and build democratic economic councils. The spells are imperfect, the alliances fragile, but the aim is clear — to replace fear with agency.

Perhaps that’s the real message of this Hogwarts analogy. There will always be Voldemorts, multiplying their Horcruxes in offshore vaults. What matters is whether enough Hermiones, Harrys, and a few repentant bureaucrats inside the Ministry decide to fight back.

Grace Blakeley reminds us that economics, like wizardry, is a matter of storytelling and courage. And somewhere between Dumbledore’s wisdom and Harry’s recklessness, between Keynes’s moderation and Blakeley’s fire, lies the possibility of a new kind of magic — the magic of democracy itself.


In praise of readings, mentors, meetings and therapy

September 22, 2025

Jill Gardiner, in her Self Psychology: Moving from Theory to Practice (2025), ends with a memoir-like chapter in which she credits four forces that shaped her professional life: readings, mentors, meetings, and therapy. Reading her reflections, I realised my own journey as a psychologist has been guided by the same four companions.

Readings

The first psychology book I picked up was effectively Jung for Beginners back in 1988. Curiosity piqued, I signed up for Psychology 1 in my post-matric year — alongside English (which became my first love) and Law (which didn’t). I meandered through an English and Law degree, added Psychology Honours, taught for a few years, detoured into journalism, then research, and finally circled back to psychology for a Clinical Master’s.

Certain readings were milestones. Irvin Yalom’s Love’s Executioner (1989) showed me therapy could be told as grippingly as a short story. Susie Orbach’s The Impossibility of Sex (1999) let me glimpse the complex relationship between therapist and client. Later, Stephen Grosz’s The Examined Life (2013) had me in awe with his brief sketches.

Journalism (and reading generally) have always been both comfort and inspiration. Locally, I admire Antjie Krog’s Country of My Skull (1998) and Jonny Steinberg’s The Number (2019). Both showed how writing can bear the unbearable. For my Master’s thesis, I combined my two strands — psychology and journalism — by dissecting magazine advice columns. Along the way, feminist psychology, critical theory, and Wahbie Long’s Nation on the Couch (2021) reminded me that the personal is always political, and the solutions we seek need to be social and structural as well as individual.

And then there was Adam Phillips. Discovered via a book-blogging friend in 2008, he has been dubbed the “poet of psychoanalysis” — proof that psychoanalytic thought can be playful, stylish, and occasionally infuriating.

Mentors

Books light the way, and mentors are there with practical advice, and further illumination. My first psychology mentor was David Hart, an Anglican chaplain at UCT who got us interested in the Jungian ideas of the shadow, the animus and anima, as well as myths and the collective unconscious.

Like many psychologists who’ve studied at Stellenbosch University, I would rate Lou-Marie Kruger as the lecturer who has most influenced me as a psychologist.  Lou-Marie combined wisdom with authenticity, empathy with a rigorous academic framework and inspired us with her love of psychology (and Freud), and her commitment to her community counselling.  

Baird Brightman (2014) has described how young therapists begin with fantasies of omniscience, benevolence, and omnipotence, and how mentors are there to help us manage our anxieties, our expectations and our “imposter syndromes”. Lou-Marie helped us to idealise the profession, but also to be realistic about our challenges and struggles along the way.

Meetings

Meetings can be like finding your tribe. As Gardiner says:

“The twinship experience of being surrounded by like-minded others, the opportunity to listen to the people who wrote what you’ve been reading, to find idealized teachers and to be so immersed in a set of ideas for three or four days can have a huge impact.”

My broader psychology “home” is the Cape Town Psychoanalytic Self Psychology Group (CTPSPG) which is also linked to the IAPSP, whose conference this October is titled “Mind-ing our Gaps: Cultivating Vulnerability and Presence in the Face of Otherness”.

Within that broader group, our smaller reading group meets once a month to tackle notable books such as Pat Ogden’s Sensorimotor Psychotherapy (2015), Susan Lord’s Moments of Meeting in Psychoanalysis (2017), and Brandchaft’s Towards an Emancipatory Psychoanalysis (2010). In these discussions, theory is always a springboard to understand real human problems and experiences.

As Gardiner notes, conferences and study groups offer a rare “twinship experience” — that sense of finding your people, of basking in a temporary community where everyone speaks your peculiar dialect. It’s heady, slightly addictive, and occasionally exhausting, but always nourishing.

Therapy

And then there’s therapy itself: the crucible where all the reading, mentoring, and meeting is tested against the raw material of one’s own life.

I’ve had several therapists. From Lesley Clark, a brilliant psychodynamic practitioner, I learned that rupture can lead to repair. Once, furious at being charged for a missed session, I confronted her instead of just quitting. She was both empathic and firm, and the encounter turned from resentment into genuine connection. Another time, when I floated my dream of becoming a psychologist, her silence was deflating, but perhaps she sensed as well that I wasn’t yet ready.

With another therapist (let’s call him Rob), I collected moments of “non-meeting.” His office was kitted out with Freud volumes and a leather couch, but when I asked if he had actually read Freud, he smiled cryptically: “I’ve heard of him.” It was a quip that landed not as wit but as evasion. Later, when I nervously wondered whether he cared less for me than for the glamorous patient after me, his response was: “If you think I’m unethical, you should report me.” Not exactly the empathic holding environment I was looking for.

These misses were as instructive as the hits. They showed me how fragile the therapeutic bond can be — and how much courage it takes, on both sides, to salvage it.

Gardiner ends her reflections with a call drawn from Jewish tradition: lech lecha (“go forth on this journey”) and vehyei berachah (“be a blessing”), passed l’dor v’dor (“from generation to generation”). It’s a reminder that psychology, at its best, isn’t just about insight; it’s about legacy.

Looking back on my own journey, I see how each strand — readings, mentors, meetings, and therapy — has tugged me forward. Books sparked curiosity, mentors have kept me on track, meetings gave me a tribe, and therapy has humbled and healed me in equal measure. I hope to be lucky enough to do the same for others for years to come.


Bearing witness, and being prisoners to hope

September 18, 2025

It’s not often that my adolescent counselling clients talk about global events, but when they do, I’m always interested to hear how they are processing them. One of my regular clients sits down, I ask him what’s going on with him and he says “not much”. “But there’s a lot going on in the world right now.” He mentions Charlie Kirk and then says how he’s been watching the news coverage of Israeli troops occupying Gaza City and forcing approximately one million Palestinians to flee. He says what’s happening in Gaza is disgusting and then we talk a bit about the Genocide. He says he feels guilty watching videos of what’s going on, knowing that most Palestinians don’t have access to the most basic necessities.

I’ve also been thinking a lot about what I (and others like me) consume in the way of news and commentary. My daily diet of Trump, Israel, Genocide and then also (sometimes almost as an afterthought, what’s happening every day where I live in Cape Town and South Africa).

I was stirred up by reading Kevin Power’s rant (if that’s the right word) about Western hypocrisy in the Dublin Review of Books. I’d never heard of either the DRB or Kevin Power but I had heard of one of the books he was reviewing, One Day Everyone Will Always Have Been Against This by Omar El Akkad (2005).

I quickly read up what reviews I can find and then start listening to the audiobook read by the author. I’m expecting a traumatic account of the Genocide that Israel is committing in Gaza, and tell myself that this is necessary and important to listen to. What I’m not expecting is a gentle, personal account of his own life and experiences. Born in Egypt, schooled in Qatar and then Montreal, worked as a war correspondent for the Globe & Mail, and then finally settled in Oregon in the United States. I’m only a quarter of the way through so I anticipate there will be a lot of trauma and anger and hurt and questioning to come. But for now I’m moved by his humanity, his openness and the way he expresses the (almost) un-expressable.

He talks about these terrible unfolding events as a ‘moral rupture’ that fundamentally shakes our faith in the supposedly liberal “West”. I know it’s more complicated and that “the West” is made up of millions of individuals and groups, and that the pushback to this barbarism (to quote another word used against the Developing World) are found in myriad ways and in countless acts of resistance, resilience, compassion and truth-telling.

At the end of his provocative article, Kevin Power writes:

The most visible genocide in history is happening now, as I write these words, as you read them, and no-one in power is doing anything to stop it. What can we do but say it? What can we do but keep saying it, over and over and over again? There must be something. There must be something more. Surely there must. There must be. Isn’t there?

I’m also struck with this thought, as I go about my daily activities: counselling, reading, admin, watching my daughter’s play, distracting myself with another slightly lame Netflix series : “How are we not talking about this every day?” How can life go on as usual when such terrible things are happening?

I feel despair and hopelessness. I ask my AI ‘friend’ for a critique of Power’s article and that does actually help. Yesterday I was unsettled, out-of-sorts, irritable. Today I’m a bit calmer. I turn to Le Chat again and ask for some words of encouragement from two South Africans who lived through the despair of Apartheid and saw (briefly perhaps) the possibility of a better, more just World.

Nelson Mandela said: “It always seem impossible until it is done.”

Also: “Courage is not the absence of fear — it’s inspiring others to move beyond it.”

Archbishop Tutu said: “Don’t be surprised that institutions disappoint you; remember, it was ordinary people who dismantled apartheid, not governments. The powerful often follow, not lead. It is our refusal to be silent, our insistence on justice, that bends the arc.”

Also, and I like this one: “We are prisoners of Hope”.

I don’t know if it’s encouraging or not. But I’ll keep reminding myself (and anyone who will listen) that we need each other more than ever. The worst may be “full of passionate intensity” but the rest of us can keep up the discipline of hope. Let me know if you agree.


Le Chat reviews Bullsh!t by Jonathan Ancer in the style of Darrel Bristow-Bovey

September 7, 2025

I asked my AI friend Le Chat to write a review of Jonathan Ancer’s excellent 2024 book Bullsh!t: 50 Fibs that made South Africa in the style of another local favourite, Darrel Bristow-Bovey. Why? Because I was confident that it could, and I was genuinely curious to see how the AI DBB would hype it up. Read the extract below and let me know if the robot hasn’t nailed this. I did make one correction: Ancer was referred to in the plural so I changed him back into being one person.

The Greatest South African Book Ever Written (No, Really)

Every now and then a book arrives that demands a grand pronouncement. Normally I avoid such pronouncements because people are quick to remind you, six months later, that you once declared Fifty Shades Darker to be “the most important exploration of postmodern desire since Breytenbach’s prison diaries.” But in this case, I am willing to risk it: Bullsh!t: 50 Fibs that Made South Africa (Jonathan Ball, 2024) is the greatest South African book ever written.

Yes, yes, I know. Greater than Long Walk to Freedom? Greater than Coetzee’s Disgrace, with its Nobel-anointed gravitas? Greater even than Wilbur Smith’s The Sunbird, which taught generations of teenage boys that archaeology could be sexy? I say yes. Emphatically yes. And if you disagree, I can only suggest that you haven’t read Bullsh!t, or you read it while sober, which was a tactical error.

This book performs the most difficult of literary feats: it tells South Africans the truth about themselves by lying — well, by uncovering lies, which in South Africa amounts to much the same thing. Every fib, every myth, every collective delusion we’ve been suckling since Jan van Riebeeck moored his ship and tried to pass off biltong as beef carpaccio, is hauled blinking into the light.

And what light it is! The prose is brisk without being shallow, funny without being facetious, clever without making you want to slap it across the face. Ancer understands that the national soul is too fragile for solemnity but too absurd for solemn silence. So he teases, he prods, he raises an eyebrow at our pretensions. He tells us, for example, that no, we did not invent Rooibos tea, and no, Paul Kruger was not a cuddly teddy bear in a stovepipe hat, and no, not every Springbok victory is a divine sign that the Almighty personally backs our scrum.

But the genius of the book isn’t just the exposure of fibs. It’s the liberation that comes with laughing at them. We are a country defined by stories — some heroic, some tragic, most just plain embroidered. And Bullsh!t says: enough embroidery. Let’s unpick the tapestry, stitch by stitch, and admire the holey, threadbare, moth-eaten but strangely beautiful cloth beneath.

Reading it, I felt what I imagine the first audiences of Shakespeare felt (or at least the drunk ones in the cheap seats): the shock of recognition, the delight of being seen, the secret suspicion that someone has finally articulated the ridiculous truth of your life better than you ever could.

So yes, I say it again, because it deserves to be said twice: this is the greatest South African book ever written. It is funnier than Cope’s election manifesto, truer than a politician’s WhatsApp apology, and more necessary than yet another artisanal gin distillery in Woodstock.

If you love this country — and even more if you’re exasperated by it — read Bullsh!t. It will make you laugh, it will make you think, and it will make you strangely proud to be part of this absurd little miracle we call South Africa.

P.S. As a counter-argument, I asked Le Chat to write, in the style of (Daily Maverick assistant editor) Marianne Thamm, that this pretentious book is a load of kraal manure. That one is at <a href=”https://www.goodreads.com/review/show/7675669484“> Goodreads </a>.


Winter Reading Diary

July 31, 2025

First some pics from our not-so-recent-now winter getaway to Wolseley. We spent two nights in a log cabin on the banks of the Breede River. T dreamed she was on a pirate ship going down the river. I couldn’t tell if the noise in the night was the river or the rain. (It was both).

In the evenings we sat around the fire and watched tennis and also The Rookie (which is eldest’s favourite programme at the moment). Also got a bit of reading done, played Scrabble and Mrs C did some knitting.

Fiction first. I listened to the first three books in the Homefront Sleuths series by historical crime writer Anna Elliott and her dad Charles Veley. They were good and I warmed to the characters of Evie Harris, retired detective Harry Jenkins and the other villagers who gather at The Cozy Cup, Evie’s tea shop in the quiet village of Crofter’s Green in Kent. These were free as part of the Audible Plus catalogue. (I did wonder whether the prolific Anna Elliott and her dad are real writers or just clever AI bots dreamed up by the publishers, but a little bit of online detective work confirmed that they are indeed real.)

Intermezzo by Sally Rooney (2024) was a Xmas present from Mrs C, partly I think because one of the two brothers who are the main characters is a semi-professional chess player and she knows I have a love/hate relationship with Chess. I’m taking my time with this one so only about a third of the way through. At this stage I’m more a fan of Ivan than Peter, who seems quite lost in his semi-depressive obsession with two women. Ivan is also neurodivergent in a way that appears to be written sensitively rather than for laughs, so we’ll see how that turns out.

Invisible Man by Ralph Ellison (1951) was on the classics challenge list that Mrs C got me interested in earlier in the year. I really tried with this one, and I’m sure if I was reading if for an English course (or even for bookclub) I would have made it to the end. But after 100 pages I had to put it down since I found the reading experience too upsetting. The way I would describe it is like being in a fever dream, where everything is slightly exaggerated and a bit disturbing. At the point where I gave up the invisible black man (do we ever know his name?) was at a black college in the South which appears to be some kind of military college since they do marching. He had just taken one of the old, white benefactors on a hair-raising drive into the backwoods where they encountered a black man who had basically been cast out by his own community because of incest, and he and his family were now surviving off the charity of white folk. Interesting, disturbing, definitely weird.

I read somewhere that Invisible Man is important because of the influence it had on later writers such as James Baldwin and for the insights it gives about America’s racial history and identity. There are foreshadowings of the kind of comedy / horror that Jordan Peele explores in Get Out! At a time when I’m trying to lessen my consumption of all things American, this was too painful to continue reading.

Death Comes for the Archbishop by Willa Cather (1927) is apparently her best-known novel and is an “epic – almost mythic – story of a single human life lived simply” in the southwestern desert of New Mexico in the second half of the 19th century. It’s an extraordinary work and Cather is, as one reviewer puts it on Goodreads, “a writer so humble, her words so transparent, that she seems to disappear behind the curtain of the text, her elegant shadow barely visible in its folds”.

My non-fiction is dominated as usual by psychology books although I’m also upping my South African content with Plaasmoorde by Carla van der Spuy and Bullsh!t by Jonathan Ancer.

Ruthless Winnicott by Sally Swartz (2019) is an exploration of the role of ruthlessness in psychic development. I’ve just finished Chapter 2 and Swartz is talking about the ruthlessness of some patients in therapy – how it can be both helpful for the process but also sometimes a defence against using the space therapeutically at all. She seems to argue for a mixture of ruth and ruthlessness and I’m intrigued to see how she also applies this to protests such as “Fees Must Fall”, drawing on the work of Algerian psychiatrist and revolutionary psychoanalytic thinker Frantz Fanon.

Mad, Bad and Sad: A History of Women and the Mind Doctors by Lisa Appignanesi (2007) is an incredibly ambitious book in that it aims to cover 200 years of the relationship between the emotional and mental suffering of women and the people (mostly men) treating them. It’s brilliantly researched and well written (Appignanesi is also a novelist). I’m up to Chapter 12 (Rebels) which deals with the 1960s. Ch 11 was excellent and dealt with: the influence of Freud and psychoanalysis on the US in the 1950s; motherhood, the good-enough shrink, Hannah Green’s I Never Promised You a Rose Garden, Sylvia Plath and also Marilyn Monroe. So far in Ch 12 we’ve had Thomas Ssasz, Ken Kesey, Michel Foucault and now the catch-all of schizophrenia.

I also really enjoyed Fierce Appetites: My Year of Untamed Thinking by Lizzie Boyle (2023) which is part memoir, part an exploration of medieval Irish poetry. As Imogen from “Reading and Watching the World” describes it, Fierce Appetites “meditates on the interconnectedness of time and place, and describes a year in Boyle’s life, the pandemic year of 2020, which opens with her father’s death in January”.

“My brother poured seventeen sachets of sugar into his black coffee. I muttered to him, ‘If dad dies while you’re adding all these fucking sugars I will never speak to you again.’

We walked back to the ward. Dad had died…”

I think what’s stayed with me (apart from Liz’s voice, both literally and figuratively since I listened to the audiobook) are her honest reflections about her own life (from motherhood, the difficulty of sustaining romantic relationships to the joy of teaching and reading), the inevitability of violence and trauma, and, as obvious as it sounds, the power of stories. I won’t even attempt a review here so rather read Imogen’s instead.

Let me know in the comments if you’ve read any of these and how you enjoyed them.


Conversations with AI: How to resist US Hegemony

July 12, 2025
House of Hegemony cartoon from Global Times; Forrest Gump movie poster

Carrying on the theme of AI as a research tool, I thought I would ask it about how to resist American hegemony. The prompt for this was my reflections on watching the movie Forest Gump (1994) with my family yesterday at the cinema at my parents’ retirement village. Apart from appreciating a good and simple story, I was struck by how sophisticated the movie was in presenting an American-centric view of the world. Even as it highlighted America’s problems from 1950 to 1980, it glossed over them and romanticized the American Dream and good old American values. It got me thinking about how entrenched we are in our dependency on American culture and information.

[And no, the irony of using an American AI isn’t lost on me! Concluding reflections at the end. Sorry about the bleach ads!]

Couchtrip: We live in a world which is dominated economically, politically and culturally by the United States. But recently following a spate of decisions by President Donald Trump and his administration (such as the cancelling of USAID, the unfettered support of Israel’s bombing and killing in Gaza and elsewhere, the erosion of civil rights and an increasingly authoritarian style of governing), there has been a pushback from the rest of the world. What advice would you give citizens in other countries about how to reduce their dependency on American power?

ChatGPT: This is a powerful and timely question, and one that raises complex issues about sovereignty, global interdependence, and the shifting landscape of geopolitics. While the United States continues to exert significant influence economically, politically, and culturally, many around the world are indeed questioning the sustainability and desirability of such dominance—especially when U.S. leadership seems to stray from democratic norms or global consensus.

Here are several thoughtful strategies for how citizens and governments in other countries might reduce their dependency on American power, while still engaging constructively in the global community:

1. Strengthen Regional Alliances

  • Why: The more countries collaborate regionally, the less dependent they are on any single global superpower.
  • How: Support political and economic blocs like the African Union, ASEAN, MERCOSUR, the European Union, or even South-South cooperation networks. These can create counterweights to U.S. influence and encourage mutual support.

2. Diversify Trade and Economic Partnerships

  • Why: Many countries rely heavily on trade with or aid from the U.S., making them vulnerable to shifts in U.S. policy.
  • How: Encourage investment and trade with emerging economies like China, India, Brazil, and intra-regional partners. Promote local industry and reduce reliance on U.S.-based tech, pharmaceuticals, and agriculture.

3. Invest in Local and Cultural Sovereignty

  • Why: U.S. cultural exports (films, social media platforms, education systems) shape global norms and identities.
  • How: Support local arts, languages, education, and media to preserve cultural autonomy. Fund public broadcasting and education systems that reflect local histories and values.

4. Push for Internet Decentralization and Tech Independence

  • Why: Much of the global digital infrastructure and platforms (Google, Facebook, Amazon) are American.
  • How: Support open-source alternatives, invest in national digital infrastructure, and promote data sovereignty—where personal and national data is stored and governed locally.

5. Develop Independent Foreign Policy

  • Why: Some countries align automatically with U.S. foreign policy, even when it contradicts their own interests or values.
  • How: Encourage governments to vote independently at the UN, critique U.S. military actions where necessary, and build diplomatic ties with a range of nations rather than depending on a single hegemon.

6. Promote Media Literacy and Alternative Information Sources

  • Why: U.S.-based news and media often dominate global narratives.
  • How: Encourage citizens to seek news from diverse global sources, including local outlets and non-Western international media (e.g. Al-Jazeera, France 24, African Arguments).

7. Protect Civil Liberties and Democratic Institutions Locally

  • Why: If American-style authoritarianism gains traction globally, it’s often mirrored in local regimes.
  • How: Civil society must remain vigilant in protecting local democracy—supporting independent courts, free press, and rights-based legislation regardless of U.S. trends.

8. Resist Cultural Hegemony Through Education

  • Why: U.S. history, philosophy, and frameworks dominate international curricula and academic discourse.
  • How: Recenter local histories and thinkers in school and university curricula, and promote intellectual traditions that reflect a broader global experience.

Final Thought:

Reducing dependency on American power isn’t about isolation or hostility. It’s about building resilience, fostering diversity, and asserting autonomy. The world is multipolar by nature, and a more balanced global system—where no single country can dictate terms—is ultimately healthier for everyone, including Americans.

**

My concluding thoughts: The argument is good but the suggestions are a little underwhelming. Firstly, the African Union isn’t an economic bloc (and there is no mention of BRICS which could over time be more influential). Secondly, when it comes to media alternatives I do like Al Jazeera but I’d never heard of France 24 or African Arguments. African Arguments, while apparently doing good work, is a tiny media player and is funded by the Royal African Society which is a London-based charity. As a South African I appreciate the more balanced view of The Guardian (which is also free) and I try to read the Daily Maverick every week. In fact I’m off to read the DM now. I’d welcome any thoughts or recommendations if you have any.


A Kleinian reading of “Where the Wild Things Are” by Maurice Sendak (thanks to AI)

July 5, 2025

Winter holidays here and I’m catching up with some psychology reading. At the moment I’m giving Lisa Appignanesi another go (Mad, Bad and Sad: A History of Women and the Mind Doctors from the 1800s to the Present). Which brings me, inter alia, to ask ChatGPT to provide a Kleinian reading of Maurice Sendak’s 1963 classic Where the Wild Things Are.

I know the jury is still out on the merits and dangers of AI but I do like to use it as a research tool. In this case, it pointed me to a 2009 article by the psychologist Richard Gottlieb (Eye on Fiction – Where the wild things are | BPS) in The Psychologist. I think the AI pretty much nailed the Kleinian reading (which is both impressive and scary).

A Kleinian reading of Where the Wild Things Are (by ChatGPT as prompted by Couchtrip)

1. Max’s outburst: the paranoid‑schizoid position
Melanie Klein describes the infant’s earliest mental life as dominated by a paranoid‑schizoid mode: drives and feelings are split into all‑good and all‑bad, and the hated parts are projected outward as persecutors. Max—in his wolf suit, brandishing a fork and shouting “I’ll eat you up!”—is acting out an oral‑sadistic, destructive impulse toward his mother. Sent to his room “without eating anything,” he experiences her, momentarily, as the bad object who withholds love and nourishment. (en.wikipedia.org)

2. The island of Wild Things: projection and projective identification
Alone, Max’s bedroom morphs into a jungle and he sails “in and out of weeks” to the island. The horned, clawed Wild Things embody the parts of himself he has just hurled outward—his ravenous rage and fear of being devoured in return. In Kleinian terms he is using projective identification: he deposits his unruly feelings in the monsters, then meets them as external persecutors. (en.wikipedia.org, psychologytoday.com)

3. Omnipotent mastery and the “wild rumpus”
By staring into all their yellow eyes without blinking, Max subdues the monsters and is crowned “the most wild thing of all.” This is the child’s omnipotent fantasy of total control over the split‑off bad objects—a momentary triumph typical of the paranoid‑schizoid position. The wordless four‑spread “wild rumpus” offers a safe, ecstatic discharge of aggression that would be unthinkable in reality, echoing Sendak’s own remark that fantasy lets a child “discharge his anger…and return…at peace with himself.” (encyclopedia.com)

4. Loneliness and guilt: moving toward the depressive position
When Max abruptly ends the rumpus and sends the Wild Things to bed without supper, he enacts a reversal: now he is the withholding parent. Guilt and yearning break through—he longs to be “where someone loved him best of all.” This shift marks the psyche’s move toward the depressive position, where good and bad aspects of the mother (and the self) can be held together. Anxiety is no longer just persecutory fear (“they’ll eat me”) but worry about harm done to the loved object. (en.wikipedia.org)

5. Journey home and reparation
Guided by the smell of food, Max sails back. The hot supper waiting in his room—love offered without reproach—symbolises the good breast restored. Klein calls the child’s wish to mend damage done in fantasy reparation; Sendak visualises it in the untouched soup and cake that affirm the mother’s survival despite Max’s aggressive dreams. Critics have noted the book’s subtext of “breast lost and breast found again,” underscoring this reparative arc. (bps.org.uk)

6. Integration and psychic growth
By the final page Max has internalised a more whole object: mother can be both frustrating and loving, and he can be both furious and affectionate without destroying the bond. The Wild Things, left behind, show that projected terrors can be reclaimed and tamed. In Kleinian language he has travelled a miniature cycle—from splitting and omnipotence, through projective identification, into guilt, mourning, and reparation—achieving a moment of psychic integration that allows sleep (and supper).

Story momentKleinian concept
Threat “I’ll eat you up”Oral‑sadistic aggression
Monsters’ menaceSplit‑off bad objects
Max’s kingshipOmnipotent control of projections
Sudden lonelinessDepressive anxiety & emerging ambivalence
Hot supperReparation & restoration of the good breast

Sendak thus turns a 338‑word picture book into a vivid case history of how children use imagination to survive powerful love‑hate feelings—precisely the terrain Melanie Klein mapped a generation earlier.


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