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katkatekate's review against another edition
4.25
Beautiful and lyrically written. Really quaint. Short essays which kept my mind happy and not drifting.
giduso's review against another edition
4.0
Un'analisi approfondita del ruolo di un medico di base nella campagna inglese degli anni 60, accompagnata da fotografie significative. L'autore ci parla dei molteplici ruoli che il dottore deve svolgere (confessore, psicologo, etc.), cercando anche di approfondire sia la mentalità dei pazienti (perlopiù povera gente), sia la personalità del medico. Un libro più profondo di quanto mi aspettassi.
jwsg's review against another edition
3.0
I was poking around the shelves of books on doctoring when I came across John Berger’s A Fortunate Man – The Story of a Country Doctor. I’d only known Berger from Ways of Seeing, his book on art, and it surprised me that he’d written a portrait of a doctor in rural England. Most of the books I’d read about doctors and medicine were based in large hospital settings – Mass Gen, Mayo Clinic-type settings.
A Fortunate Man is the polar opposite of these – John Sassell chose a remote country practice under the NHS, handling everything from “appendix and hernia operations on kitchen tables”, “delivering babies in caravans”, to treating measles and giving vaccinations. But he is so much more than a medical practitioner. He is a confidant, a therapist and social worker:
“He deals with all emergencies which arise – from serious accidents in the quarries or at harvesting time in the fields, to the despair of a young woman who wants to kill her illegitimate baby or the slow suffering and eventual collapse of a retired vicar who has lost his faith.”
But more than that, Berger describes Sassell as a “witness” who gives his patient recognition – recognition as a unique individual who is simultaneously knowable (and therefore curable). He is also the “clerk of [the community’s] records” who bears witness to their collective lives and inner selves, who “thinks and speaks what the community feels and incoherently knows…the growing force…of their self-consciousness.”
But A Fortunate Man isn’t just about Sassell. It is also about the context in which he operates and Berger’s observations on this front are acute:
“The inarticulateness of the English is the subject of many jokes and is often explained in terms of puritanism, shyness as a national characteristic, etc. This tends to obscure a more serious development. There are large sections of the English working and middle class who are inarticulate as the result of wholesale cultural deprivation. They are deprived of the means of translating what they know into thoughts which they can think. They have no examples to follow in which words clarify experience. Their spoken proverbial traditional have long been destroyed: and, although they are literate in the strictly technical sense, they have not had the opportunity of discovering the existence of a written cultural heritage.
Yet it is more than a question of literature. Any general culture acts as a mirror which enables the individual to recognize himself – or at least to recognize those parts of himself which are socially permissible. The culturally deprived have far fewer ways of recognizing themselves. A great deal of their experience – especially emotional and introspective experience – has to remain unnamed for them. Their chief means of self-expression is consequently through action: this is one of the reasons why the English have so many ‘do-it-yourself’ hobbies. The garden or the work bench becomes the nearest they have to a means of satisfactory introspection.”
A beautifully-written portrait.
A Fortunate Man is the polar opposite of these – John Sassell chose a remote country practice under the NHS, handling everything from “appendix and hernia operations on kitchen tables”, “delivering babies in caravans”, to treating measles and giving vaccinations. But he is so much more than a medical practitioner. He is a confidant, a therapist and social worker:
“He deals with all emergencies which arise – from serious accidents in the quarries or at harvesting time in the fields, to the despair of a young woman who wants to kill her illegitimate baby or the slow suffering and eventual collapse of a retired vicar who has lost his faith.”
But more than that, Berger describes Sassell as a “witness” who gives his patient recognition – recognition as a unique individual who is simultaneously knowable (and therefore curable). He is also the “clerk of [the community’s] records” who bears witness to their collective lives and inner selves, who “thinks and speaks what the community feels and incoherently knows…the growing force…of their self-consciousness.”
But A Fortunate Man isn’t just about Sassell. It is also about the context in which he operates and Berger’s observations on this front are acute:
“The inarticulateness of the English is the subject of many jokes and is often explained in terms of puritanism, shyness as a national characteristic, etc. This tends to obscure a more serious development. There are large sections of the English working and middle class who are inarticulate as the result of wholesale cultural deprivation. They are deprived of the means of translating what they know into thoughts which they can think. They have no examples to follow in which words clarify experience. Their spoken proverbial traditional have long been destroyed: and, although they are literate in the strictly technical sense, they have not had the opportunity of discovering the existence of a written cultural heritage.
Yet it is more than a question of literature. Any general culture acts as a mirror which enables the individual to recognize himself – or at least to recognize those parts of himself which are socially permissible. The culturally deprived have far fewer ways of recognizing themselves. A great deal of their experience – especially emotional and introspective experience – has to remain unnamed for them. Their chief means of self-expression is consequently through action: this is one of the reasons why the English have so many ‘do-it-yourself’ hobbies. The garden or the work bench becomes the nearest they have to a means of satisfactory introspection.”
A beautifully-written portrait.
swarnak84's review against another edition
1.0
I was very disappointed in this book, which purports to be a portrait of a rural doctor but is actually an excuse for Berger to expostulate on his views on rural ‘peasantry’. Berger is patronising to the patients and you have to wonder how much agency they had in being able to say no to their intimate secrets being spilled and their portraits published. Further all that Berger proclaims superlative in the doctor is unhealthy when viewed retrospectively in light of the doctors suicide which seems unsurprising to the reader but not to Berger.
yc0210's review against another edition
challenging
informative
reflective
slow-paced
3.25
Memorial to a unique physicianship that probably no longer exists under the alienation of labor
nick_jenkins's review against another edition
5.0
Often an author will actively choose to limit their subject in ways that they believe are mere demarcations–'I am writing about this, not that'–but these limits are not in fact specifications but rather are acts of excision and removal. What they are doing is not drawing a perimeter around a certain area, forming or following natural categorical differences, say between one country and another, or between one sex and another. They are instead cutting out part of a tissue–even if the part they have removed is relatively unlike the part that remains, the larger point surely is the former connectedness, the severed integrity.
Berger chooses to limit his subject–the life of a remarkable "country doctor"–in terms of nationality and of sex, but that is not to say that he is blind to the Englishness and the maleness of his protagonist. Those characteristics are considered at length, and with great illumination. What I mean is rather that Berger is inflexible on the question of whether his story would be further illuminated not so much by comparison but by an acknowledgment that neither maleness nor Englishness is a complete story in itself, that neither 'man' nor 'England' can be considered without distortion as a singularity.
It is strange that Berger would be so myopic about these issues because he is so lucidly dialectical about so much in this very book, particularly about the loneliness, 'backwardness', and inarticulateness, all conditions that would seem to be most naturally analyzed as disconnected states, atomistic in their self-enclosure. Yet in the book's only endnote that is not a citation, he can write, "I do not attempt in this essay to discuss the role of Sassall's wife or his children. My concern is his professional life." What a shockingly undialectical way of thinking about the private and the public, about the domestic and the professional, and–underlying both–about men and women.
I write about this (rather than try to write a simple summary of the book's content and approach) because it bothered me in a manner that I hope is productive. There is so much about this book that is perspicuous, eloquent, wise, even vital, but I am not completely sure what the thing is for which or about which the book is giving me such rare and encouraging insights.
Berger claims for Sassall an aspiration toward universality. This is meant as a study of the the 'human condition', about the very meaning of life. Yet given the book's limitations–both those which are chosen and those which are implicit but not known to the author–it cannot be 'about' that at all, even if Berger thinks that 'universality' and 'universal man' are synonymous, that 'the condition of man' and 'the human condition' are equivalent constructions.
There are some really wonderful passages about generalizations and power in the book which should apply here. Berger is exceptionally shrewd about the sources and intricacies of Sassall's power vis-à-vis his patients, but he is nowhere self-reflective about the power he had as an observer shadowing Sassall (or the power his co-author, Jean Mohr, the photographer had). There is very little of the self-reflexiveness of, say, James Agee in Let Us Know Praise Famous Men, little acknowledgment of the steeply weighted power differential that separates someone on one side of the camera or the typewriter from someone on the other.
It would be easy to think this lack of self-reflection is one which the reader can supplement with some additional sophistication, but that is a fallacy, I think. Berger wants us to believe that his subject is humanity in a fundamental sense, and that the knowledge we might take from this book is knowledge about what it means to be human, and one way out of our dilemma might be to say that if we properly take into account his specific blindnesses–the historic and social categories which shaped Berger's understanding of what 'the human' or 'the universal' is–we can salvage that aspiration of reaching toward the fundamental/universal/human. But I am uncomfortable with and unconvinced by this move, this reassurance that as long as we are aware of the specifics of identity and historicity, we can retain some claim on the universal, can discover some fundamental truths about 'the human'. Why is there no middle term, something in between the parochial and the fundamental?
That middle ground is where I think Berger is actually working–and where some other British intellectuals of his generation, such as E. P. Thompson and Raymond Williams were working–in a mode that has extremely broad applicability both across time and across innumerable cultures, but that cannot rightfully be said to be capable of producing knowledge about 'the human condition'. So powerful and empowering are the insights to be gained from the categories and insights that come from these men's writings that we are sorely tempted to hypostatize, to claim universality for what is not completely universal. What this book means to me is the necessity and fruitfulness of keeping that tension active, of maintaining some recognition that generalizations are most often operative in this middle ground, and that much can be gained precisely in that space.
Berger chooses to limit his subject–the life of a remarkable "country doctor"–in terms of nationality and of sex, but that is not to say that he is blind to the Englishness and the maleness of his protagonist. Those characteristics are considered at length, and with great illumination. What I mean is rather that Berger is inflexible on the question of whether his story would be further illuminated not so much by comparison but by an acknowledgment that neither maleness nor Englishness is a complete story in itself, that neither 'man' nor 'England' can be considered without distortion as a singularity.
It is strange that Berger would be so myopic about these issues because he is so lucidly dialectical about so much in this very book, particularly about the loneliness, 'backwardness', and inarticulateness, all conditions that would seem to be most naturally analyzed as disconnected states, atomistic in their self-enclosure. Yet in the book's only endnote that is not a citation, he can write, "I do not attempt in this essay to discuss the role of Sassall's wife or his children. My concern is his professional life." What a shockingly undialectical way of thinking about the private and the public, about the domestic and the professional, and–underlying both–about men and women.
I write about this (rather than try to write a simple summary of the book's content and approach) because it bothered me in a manner that I hope is productive. There is so much about this book that is perspicuous, eloquent, wise, even vital, but I am not completely sure what the thing is for which or about which the book is giving me such rare and encouraging insights.
Berger claims for Sassall an aspiration toward universality. This is meant as a study of the the 'human condition', about the very meaning of life. Yet given the book's limitations–both those which are chosen and those which are implicit but not known to the author–it cannot be 'about' that at all, even if Berger thinks that 'universality' and 'universal man' are synonymous, that 'the condition of man' and 'the human condition' are equivalent constructions.
There are some really wonderful passages about generalizations and power in the book which should apply here. Berger is exceptionally shrewd about the sources and intricacies of Sassall's power vis-à-vis his patients, but he is nowhere self-reflective about the power he had as an observer shadowing Sassall (or the power his co-author, Jean Mohr, the photographer had). There is very little of the self-reflexiveness of, say, James Agee in Let Us Know Praise Famous Men, little acknowledgment of the steeply weighted power differential that separates someone on one side of the camera or the typewriter from someone on the other.
It would be easy to think this lack of self-reflection is one which the reader can supplement with some additional sophistication, but that is a fallacy, I think. Berger wants us to believe that his subject is humanity in a fundamental sense, and that the knowledge we might take from this book is knowledge about what it means to be human, and one way out of our dilemma might be to say that if we properly take into account his specific blindnesses–the historic and social categories which shaped Berger's understanding of what 'the human' or 'the universal' is–we can salvage that aspiration of reaching toward the fundamental/universal/human. But I am uncomfortable with and unconvinced by this move, this reassurance that as long as we are aware of the specifics of identity and historicity, we can retain some claim on the universal, can discover some fundamental truths about 'the human'. Why is there no middle term, something in between the parochial and the fundamental?
That middle ground is where I think Berger is actually working–and where some other British intellectuals of his generation, such as E. P. Thompson and Raymond Williams were working–in a mode that has extremely broad applicability both across time and across innumerable cultures, but that cannot rightfully be said to be capable of producing knowledge about 'the human condition'. So powerful and empowering are the insights to be gained from the categories and insights that come from these men's writings that we are sorely tempted to hypostatize, to claim universality for what is not completely universal. What this book means to me is the necessity and fruitfulness of keeping that tension active, of maintaining some recognition that generalizations are most often operative in this middle ground, and that much can be gained precisely in that space.
rosemarykirk's review against another edition
5.0
I’ve never read anything quite like this before; Berger’s style is simultaneously conversational and full of depth, and his essay structure is a joy. His observations are so astute and he elegantly verbalises concepts that I’ve thought about a lot but never been able to enunciate, particularly regarding the fraternal intimacy of medicine, the need to recognise patients, and the role of the doctor in suffering.
My main criticism would be of the sometimes male-centric approach and the occasional overly detailed descriptions of women’s bodies (ah the 60s).
A number of doctors have recommended this book to me, people who meet the book’s description of a “good doctor”, and like them I think it’s a book I’ll revisit a lot in my career.
My main criticism would be of the sometimes male-centric approach and the occasional overly detailed descriptions of women’s bodies (ah the 60s).
A number of doctors have recommended this book to me, people who meet the book’s description of a “good doctor”, and like them I think it’s a book I’ll revisit a lot in my career.