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This is a loosely written account of the experiences of a young woman who suffers from some form of functional nervous disorder shortly after her marriage. The description of her symptoms is too indefinite to warrant any attempt at a psychiatric nomenclature. However, the patient and her husband feel that she was thoroughly misunderstood by the various physicians who treated her successively in sanitaria by minimization, methodic brutality, encouragement, sex appeal, terminology, experimentation, efficiency and 'common sense', until she finally came under the care of the resourceful psycho-analyst by whom she claims to have been cured. She has apparently learned her lesson by rote of the mechanisms supposedly responsible for her depression and phobias, but any critical analyst, both from her account and also from the fact that she feels called upon to extol her cure, would undoubtedly entertain doubts about its reality. One is inclined to think that the patient suffered from a possibly self-limited attack of depression, and to consider her book as a testimonial of the unresolved transference to her latest doctor. While her jibes at the frailties, stupidities and foibles of her long list of medical attendants are amusing, even though at times apparently justifiable, the miracle of psycho-analysis is also overstated.