February passed in a grey blur.
Reading Siddhartha Muckherjee’s The Emperor of All Maladies and since I bought it on Friday, every day I’m desperate to get back to the company of this wonderful writer.
“In writing this book, I started off by imagining my project as a ‘history’ of cancer. But it felt, inescapably, as if I were writing not about something but about someone. My subject daily morphed into something that resembled an individual – an enigmatic, if somewhat deranged image in a mirror. this was not so much a medical history of an illness, but something more person, more visceral: its biography.”
This book is personal as a drama and compelling as a thriller. The pleasure of reading it – apart from the being in the company of a compassionate, generous man and gifted writer – is the glimpse it gives us of him thinking.
I find myself thinking of the metaphysical poets known for their subtlety of thought and complex imagery… that’s what appeals to me about this writer.