It has been some time since my last update, and while I have fallen behind my initial goal of monthly postings, I am determined to regain my rhythm. There is something grounding about the act of writing, particularly when it is inspired by the profound impact of literature. Sitting beside me today is a pristine, signed copy of Meg Mason’s celebrated second novel, Sorrow and Bliss. First published in Australia in 2020, the book has since become an international phenomenon, earning a shortlist nomination for the Women’s Prize for Fiction in 2022 among other accolades.
Beyond its critical success, there is a tactile pleasure in this particular copy. Even years after its purchase, it retains that crisp, distinct perfume of a new book—a scent that every bibliophile recognizes instantly. I am notoriously protective of my library; I am not the type of reader to turn down page corners or leave my volumes exposed to the harsh glare of the sun. The only exception I have ever made was the brief four-minute window required to photograph the book resting in our garden for this reflection. This copy is particularly special, signed by Mason following her captivating appearance at the 2024 Auckland Writers Festival. My shelves are lined with such treasures, many sourced from the same incredible festival, serving as a physical archive of literary inspiration.
Meg Mason, who spent her formative years in New Zealand before moving to Australia as a teenager, retains a deep connection to her roots, identifying first and foremost as a Kiwi. With the recent August release of her latest novel, Sophie, Standing There, it seems highly likely she will replicate the runaway success of Sorrow and Bliss. Her work possesses a rare, magnetic quality that captures the zeitgeist of contemporary life while navigating the complexities of the human condition.
The premise of Sorrow and Bliss is deceptively simple, yet it serves as a gateway into a deeply intricate emotional landscape. Goodreads introduces us to Martha, a 40-year-old woman grappling with the persistent, gnawing sense that something is fundamentally "wrong" with her. Her husband, Patrick, remains a portrait of well-intentioned denial, firmly believing that she is essentially fine. His perspective is a common one—the idea that everyone carries some burden, and the solution is simply to "keep going." Before their marriage, Martha was candid about her lack of desire for children. Patrick, having loved her since he was fourteen, dismissed the importance of children entirely, asserting that his only goal was to make her happy. Yet, the tragedy of the narrative lies in his inability to bridge the gap between his intentions and her reality. By the time Martha eventually discovers the nature of her struggle, the window for the life she once envisioned has long since closed. The novel forces the reader to confront a haunting question: is it possible to stop loving someone and start entirely from nothing, provided one can find a new purpose?
From my perspective as a psychologist, the novel is a masterclass in empathy. I have long held that empathy is the overarching emotion that defines why we read fiction. A truly great writer possesses the rare ability to construct words and stories so vivid that the reader can inhabit the emotional architecture of the characters. Our brains are biologically wired for this experience. When we observe someone else in a state of distress or joy, our own neural pathways often mimic that engagement. This is largely attributed to mirror neurons—specialized cells that fire both when we perform an action and when we observe that same action performed by another.
This process is fundamentally linked to what psychologists call "theory of mind," the cognitive capacity that allows humans to attribute thoughts, feelings, and intentions to ourselves and others. It is, in essence, the human version of mind-reading. Mason’s narrative is an effortless invitation into the psyche of her protagonist; she allows us to read Martha’s mind, demonstrating the quintessential literary skill of "showing, not telling." By the time the reader finishes the book, the experience of Martha’s internal world feels as visceral and real as our own lived history.
The story is a harrowing, often razor-sharp, and laugh-aloud funny exploration of a life split asunder. At forty, Martha finds her marriage collapsing under the weight of a lifelong, undiagnosed mental illness. No doctor, no medication, and no amount of "just keeping going" has been able to rectify the fundamental discord in her life. For any reader, and certainly for a clinician, it is nearly impossible to resist the urge to diagnose Martha throughout the book. We want to name her struggle to categorize it, to understand it.
Mason brilliantly subverts this impulse. On page 233, when a new psychiatrist finally provides a name for Martha’s condition, the reader is met only with a dash. Every subsequent mention of the diagnosis in the dialogue between Martha and her family is similarly obscured by this singular punctuation mark. It is a profound, structural choice that highlights the inherent dangers of labeling. When we force a person into a diagnostic box, we risk reducing their entire identity to a set of symptoms, ignoring the reality that no human being is a "single thing." By refusing to provide a clinical label, Mason forces us to witness the ripple effects of Martha’s struggle—the way it tests the boundaries of love and leads her to sabotage her most precious relationships. It reminds us that behind every diagnosis is a person whose life cannot be defined by a medical term.
In modern publishing, it has become common to include "red flag" warnings for content that might be triggering. If I were to offer a warning for Sorrow and Bliss, it would be to keep a box of tissues close by—though you will find yourself giggling between the bouts of heartbreak. It is a rare book that can elicit both laughter and tears with such frequency and authenticity. What more can we ask of a great read?
As I close this chapter of my blog, I look forward to the next month of reading and reflection. The Auckland Writers Festival continues to be a wellspring of inspiration for these posts, reminding me of the importance of storytelling in our shared human experience. I hope to return in roughly a month’s time with new thoughts on the literature that shapes our understanding of the world. Until then, happy reading.
