A couple of years ago, confined to bed for weeks with a bad case of chicken pox, I was surprised to find that all I wanted to read were chronicles of illness. A Better Woman (childbirth-induced fistula), The Diving Bell and the Butterfly (shut-in syndrome), A Match to the Heart (heart failure after being struck by lightning), My Year Off (stroke) – I devoured them avidly. This was more than the egotism of the ill, I hope, although certainly a part of the enjoyment lay in seeing the fact of sickness given its own exclusive literary space. But I suspect my enjoyment had something more to do with watching those authors piece themselves back together in language. So physically altered that I could hardly recognise myself in the mirror, I took a greater pleasure than usual in the mysterious alchemy of word and flesh.