271 arly in the undying—the poet and essayist Anne Boyer’s mosaic of memoir, commonplace book, and manifesto —she quotes from the diary of the nineteenth-century novelist Fanny Burney, who, nine months after she had endured a mastectomy without anesthesia, was still trying to cordon the event from her consciousness. “I could not think of it with impunity!” she writes—that is, she saw no option of recollection that would come free of punishment. She meant, most likely, the punishment of reliving the event, but it’s hard not to hear a deeper knowledge that Styles of Radical Illness Anne Boyer diagnoses the lies we still tell about cancer Laura Kolbe books E 272 | LAURA KOLBE the surgery’s traumatic pain cannot be long dwelled on without, in some sense, putting her in the wrong: that articulating the socially unspeakable, even to herself, was a kind of crime—estranging her from the particular niche, with all its rules and regulations, marked out for a person of her sex, class, and homeland. Of course, she did think of it—did face the horrific memories, write them down. To name the particular violence done to her own body, Burney was willing to risk amputation from the social body. That kind of penalty still exists. Anne Boyer, who lives in remission from what is called triple-negative breast cancer—the kind that is only potentially treatable with a regimen of midcentury cytotoxic chemotherapies paired with surgery, radiation, or both—spends much of The Undying, her viciously agile song-cycle about, in part, speech and its price, identifying a deafeningly loud pseudo-discourse that amounts to little more than the old social reticence around illness, especially cancer. As she notes, the new rhetoric is in its way as stifling as the old silence: upbeat a∞rmation shapes the narrow but babbling vocabulary of runs, walks, ribbons , and associated merchandise. “Only one class of people who have had breast cancer are regularly admitted to the pinkwashed landscape of awareness: those who have survived it,” Boyer writes. “To those victors go the narrative spoils.” In this aggro-sentimental soundscape, the tale on loop is one of “‘surviving’ via neoliberal self-management,” of being “cured with compliance, 5K runs, organic green smoothies, and positive thought.” To strike a downbeat note is deviant: should the sick patient complain or speak of loss, she will quickly be punished. She might be gaslit to the creeping verge of madness, given the silent treatment (in the form of others’ relentless “focusing on the positive ,” for example, while they ignore her own darker situation), or simply overpowered by the chorus of strenuous optimism. of course, this news—that we ignore the deeper realities of illness —is not new. But of late a robust counternarrative has sprung up: these days it can seem as if every writer with an illness has ushered STYLES OF RADICAL ILLNESS | 273 us to the sickbed to show us how things really are—the trespasses, the anxieties, the blips of humor inherent in illness’s surrealism. Colm Tóibín and Tim Parks detail the nadirs of their urologic and rectal exams. Sarah Manguso describes eating French fries before undergoing plasma filtration, then watching an opaque film of fat slide out of her bloodstream into the machinery. The poems of the late Max Ritvo chart his body’s swift regression to the rickety dependence of one who is “house-trained, but not entirely.” And Jenny Diski wrote at length about the banal, unglamorous realities of dying of lung cancer in the London Review of Books, pieties be damned. Boyer knowingly works in the shadow of other radically honest or anti-reductive accounts, most notably those of Audre Lorde and Susan Sontag. Both had breast cancer and eventually died of still other cancers—liver in Lorde’s case, myelodysplastic syndrome in Sontag’s. Lorde’s Cancer Journals anticipates Boyer’s queasy attention to the financial and physical particulars of the medical industry : how much does X cost, and who gets it (or doesn’t)? Where does the skin get cut? Sontag wrote Illness as Metaphor to fight the inane and pernicious imagery barnacled onto the Western vocabulary...
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