/continued...
This novel is authentic. It is largely autobiographical. To the extent it portrays a situation which was replicated across the country in every major town and city, Ward 14 could have been anywhere. To the extent the author’s knowledge was gained in one particular hospital, in one particular town, some people may think to recognise the fictional characters that populate the pages.
This is not true. The characters are not real people under false names, but literary composites, the blame for whose thoughts, words and deeds cannot be laid on colleagues with whom it was the author’s privilege to work.
But there was something special about the author’s hospital. It was run by far-seeing and humane people, to whom it is fitting here to pay tribute. Their attitude of selfless care trickled down to the bottom of the totem pole. Had the hospital been run by less caring people, it’s dreadful to think what this story could have been like: “The Scourge of the Swastika” perhaps? Other survivors of the system may conclude that the novel paints too rosy a picture, then as now. Perhaps it does. If that invalidates the world it tries to portray, then let them write their own story. Let as many survivors as possible expose the shameful state of our public provision for mental distress.
But let’s not...