The Diving Bell and the Butterfly
By Jean-Dominique Bauby
A reader once commented about my work: my chapters are unusually short. I don’t know if my physical limitations constrained me to write more succinctly, or if a decisive nature of my words just flowed through me in that period. I found that Bauby wrote the same way. His chapters were short but full.
I had been avoiding this book for so long, thinking it to be a most somber one. How could it not be? He wrote the entire thing with his left eyelid. But surprisingly, the book was quite hopeful, its tone almost unapologetic about the author’s illness. Sure, it was a mammoth that sat on his fate, but after a while, it was just that – a stinky mammoth. Indeed, even inside a diving bell, butterflies can fly.
I know I’ve written a lot about medically-related books as of late. A Year Off was about encountering illness. The Man Who Mistook His Wife for a Hat was a catalogue of unique illnesses and their compassionate treatment. But The Diving Bell and the Butterfly is about an unquenchable spirit. Truly, you cannot kill a man until you have clipped the wings of imagination. Bauby’s mind was robust and agile. His persona loomed in the pages. He would have made a likely friend.
I tried to compare notes while reading it. We both had a rude introduction to the brainstem. We both referred to ourselves as scarecrows. Even the mantra we chanted to ourselves bore a similar vein. And the uncontrollable laughter; I’m glad he had it too. I liked how he referred to Rehab as a court of miracles. It is devastating to me to know of his future. He remarked casually about writing a play in the future. He greeted autumn in a new light after a long summer hard at work writing his book. I am perhaps devastated as the reader, but his hope kept him alive when it counted.
A hare read. (Mentioned in #Tethered)
#thetortoiseandtheharereadingclub
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