There is a lot to love about Noam Shpancer’s quirky novel about a psychologist who sees patients during the day and teaches would-be therapists at night. For people who have never been in therapy, the book is a wonderful introduction to the therapeutic process. For those who have spent time in therapy, the book provides a deeper understanding of this unique and complex process from the perspective of the therapist.

The reader is introduced to the good psychologist, a middle aged divorced practitioner, who is thoughtful, reflective, and intentional. In keeping with the principle of clinical distance, Shpancer does not even tell us his name; however, we do meet the psychologist’s patients and experience their sessions. The primary plot involves an abused exotic dancer who has developed anxiety about performing. I am not sure why Shpancer chooses this client given his otherwise ordinary and pedagogical tone. Nonetheless, the book is serious about therapy and the potential to heal large or small pieces of oneself through describing, analyzing, and understanding one’s actions with the guidance of a trained therapist. The good psychologist says, “ The therapist is like a driving instructor, not a chauffeur.”

The book effectively introduces both the theory and practice of therapy. The novel’s strength is the way the good psychologist shares his thoughts as he teachers his classes and treats his patients. He illuminates the ways in which patients do or don't form a bond with him as illustrative of how that person might form relationships in his or her life. The novel also shows how components of therapy such as payments, missed appointments, and tardiness reveal emotional patterns about a patient that can be deconstructed in the therapeutic process. And he touches on the ways Freudians, cognitivists, and Behaviorists might differ in their approaches to helping a client confront their pain.

The relationship between a therapist and a patient is simultaneously limited and limitless. The good psychologist is well aware of this fact. He says, “In trying to map the depth of the internal realm, all we have at our disposal are primitive tools: conversations, observation, and introspection. And even with all our tools, we are lucky to ever break through even the outermost layer.” Yet he persists because there are few better options for helping people understand their internal worlds. He says, “One hour a week of battering against the walls cannot breach a fortress built over many long years. The lessons learned in a session must be translated into everyday practice. The shape of one’s life, in the final analysis, emerges from the sum of one’s everydays.” And he believes he does help facilitate change in people’s everyday lives.

Inevitably, the good psychologist’s issues emerge. Though we learn about neurosis, anxiety, OCD, and panic attacks through his patients, the psychologist’s angst feels like aching melancholy and existential loneliness. I wonder if knowing the enormous complexity of the human psyche leads him to a self imposed isolation. As the novel ends, we don’t learn the good psychologist’s name, but we do learn about his lonely life, his hurting heart, and the blurring of professional boundaries. The good psychologist exposes us to the theory, the practice, and sometimes the magic of therapy, but now he needs to find himself a good psychologist.