and yet another cold. Bodily Harm, an early novel of hers, is larger and more sprawling than the dystopian stories I have been reading recently ( Oryx and Crake, The Handmaid’s Tale ). But it’s well worth the effort — a wonderful story about how being a middle-class woman with breast cancer is not actually the worse fate in the world.
I couldn’t help thinking of the Dina Rabinovitch column about breast cancer, which I skimmed at breakfast, which ends where her goldfish are helping her cope with the disappointment after publishers tell her that the market for “me and my cancer” books is a little saturated right now.