psychological fiction
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The true double bind is not merely a clash of obligations. It is a collision between incompatible moral worlds, each claiming total legitimacy. What makes it intolerable is not that you cannot satisfy all parties, but that whichever path you take will retroactively redefine you as immoral in someone else’s story. You are not allowed
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There is a particular species of man one encounters in failing organisations. Not the usurper. Not the saboteur. Not the visionary who sees flames as an opportunity for rebirth. No. This man is humbler, softer, and altogether more revealing. He is the one found in doorways. Neither fully in the room nor fully out of
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I remember the birth because it was winter. I remember the smell of disinfectant, and Peter’s hands, warm and steady, holding mine. I remember feeling nothing and thinking that must be what peace was. They said she was small, fragile. He called her perfect. I told myself I’d given him a gift. I said it
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The story written is not the only story that could be told. The same circumstances – the same childhood, the same betrayal, the same courtroom silence – can be narrated as the making of a monster or the tempering of a saint. Events are fixed; meaning is not. This is what Jung understood when he
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There was a time when the phrase “a good man” carried moral weight. It did not mean a harmless man, nor a man subdued by guilt or fashion, but a man who had learned to master his own capacity for destruction. A good man was dangerous, disciplined, and devoted. He could protect without posturing, and
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I call them the good years. I have always called them that. Beaming as though your brightness were my achievement. Perhaps it was. I left too many silences in my wake, so you filled them with pride on my behalf. It was easier that way. D had remarried. She hated me, her eyes narrowed whenever
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There are wounds that excuse folly. There are losses that explain frailty. But there are no wounds, no losses, no fractures that excuse betrayal disguised as virtue. The matriarch who has lived long enough to know suffering has no right to perpetuate it. She who has tasted abandonment, who has seen the chaos of divided
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I told myself I was trying. That was the word I clung to – trying. A good house, a lovely baby, and a man who worked because he loved us. But each evening I felt the walls move closer, until I was phoning the police because the dark was unbearable. Hospitals too. I wanted someone
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A curious paradox runs through the modern obsession with “boundaries.” On the one hand, the word has entered the lexicon of therapy culture like a sacrament, invoked with the reverence once reserved for virtues like patience or forgiveness. On the other hand, it has been cheapened, claimed by the woke movement as a shield against
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I find myself writing to you today, on the evening of my birthday, with your manuscript resting heavily beside me. It is not a gift in any ordinary sense, yet it is a gift nonetheless: a mirror, unflinching, unsentimental, and – at times – merciless. I have read what you have written. It is, of
Reade Saunders 