I have to declare an interest in reviewing this book. I have known Elisabeth Hanscombe for years, although the tyranny of distance means we hardly ever see each other, and we have mutual friends. My name also crops up in the book, much to my surprise. I should also confess that I know next to nothing about psychoanalysis, have only ever once been to a counsellor, and the only groups I have ever attended are ones that concentrated on the acquisition of Modern Greek.
This book reminds the reader of Tolstoy’s famous opening to Anna Karenina: All happy families are alike; each unhappy family is unhappy in its own way. A striking sentence, of course, but I’m not sure that it is entirely true. In unhappy families where children are abused, there is often a pattern in which the victim becomes an abuser in his or her turn. And ideas and ideals of happiness are often quite varied.
Elisabeth, born in the early 1950s, is the offspring of Dutch immigrants to Australia. The fact of immigration divides a life in two: before and after. Elisabeth’s mother yearns for her previous life but knows it cannot be regained. A devout and obedient Catholic, she gave birth eleven times, though the first child died in infancy in Holland and the last was stillborn. Elisabeth was thus one of nine, and it is fair to say that she, along with her siblings, was at best neglected and at worst abused. Elisabeth states that she learned fear from her father and a desire to escape from her mother.
One of the striking features of this autobiography is its honesty. Honesty is lauded as a virtue, but when it comes to writing, it is a quality that is often denigrated and punished, with writers accused of narcissism even as they attempt to engage the reader. Nobody is unique, after all, and the writer of autobiography hopes that somehow a chord will be struck in the reader. One chord that was struck in me is one of deep thankfulness for my own childhood, which was safe, secure and generally happy. My grandmothers were rightly insistent on the practice of counting one’s blessings, and the reading of this book made me do just that.
Elisabeth’s father was an abusive alcoholic who had mental and emotional problems, while her mother took refuge in a deep devotion to Catholicism and in books—although, with nine children, her reading time was obviously very limited. Elisabeth shared a room with her older sister, who was regularly abused by their father. In this frank account, we learn that the abuse, while deplorable, could have been worse. Elisabeth was not abused but felt the threat continually, and was warned by her sister: ‘If he touches you, scream!’ Elisabeth mentions years of silence before she could confront the matter of her early life and start to talk about it and examine it. Her siblings forbade her to reveal details of their lives. Her brother discovers that their paternal grandfather had been charged with sexual offences but insists that this information must remain secret until the grandfather’s generation is dead.
'We all fail at something — some venture or undertaking — but the way in which we cope with failure is the important thing.'
Children in such a family are bound to look for the affection that they have a right to but are not receiving. So there were predictable attachments to nuns and priests during adolescence. Elisabeth also found an escape route in conscientious study and in writing. The opportunity to study Social Work at the University of Melbourne saw her eventual disillusionment with Catholicism and her growing connection to the whole idea and practice of psychoanalysis. One attachment replaces another, for Elisabeth becomes very dependent on her analyst and thinks she loves her. This, of course, is a development that analysts have been trained to expect. In a sense, Elisabeth needs reliable and ethical authority in her life: first the Church, and then psychoanalysis. It comes as no surprise to learn that Elisabeth’s mother strongly disapproves of her new commitment.
The title of this book is significant, and there is an actual Museum of Failure, as Elisabeth records. We all fail at something — some venture or undertaking — but the way in which we cope with failure is the important thing, and Elisabeth learns this, as we all must. Rejection figures in her life, as it does in many lives. Her sister tries to become a nun, but the order does not accept her. Elisabeth herself is sorely tried when she is not permitted to continue with her psychoanalytic training. Author Gerald Murnane ends their long correspondence. And earlier, she seems to feel she has failed with her psychoanalyst. But despite these setbacks, she eventually becomes a psychotherapist and a writer; she also earns a doctorate.
In a recent Eureka Street piece, Michael McVeigh wrote about the concept of ‘failing upwards.’ He pointed out that we all fail, and that the late Pope Francis himself had come to ‘a humble reckoning with failure.’ A vital notion is that we learn to live inside our sense of inadequacy and proceed anyway. We must have the courage to continue to fail. Upwards. In this powerfully written book, Elisabeth shows that she has this courage, and has done just that.
Gillian Bouras is an expatriate Australian writer who has written several books, stories and articles, many of them dealing with her experiences as an Australian woman in Greece.