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Cancer, tumour, cancer. The words fizzle and dissolve into nothing like aspirin in water. I exist in the third person. The room is blue. When Graham Caveney was a child the word 'cancer' was unspeakable, only uttered in jokes told by people too frightened to say the word in any other context. Now the boy with perpetual nervousness is a fifty-something man, and the oncologist in front of him is saying words evacuated of all meaning: Inoperable. Incurable. In this startling and deeply moving memoir from one of the great chroniclers of British working-class life, Graham Caveney charts a year of disease from diagnosis to past 'original sell-by-date'. Shot through with Northerness, tenderness, and Caveney's trademark humour, The Body in the Library reflects on an unfinished lifetime filled with books and with love. What's it like to realise that the books on your shelf will remain unread? That the book you are writing will be your last - that you have become your own deadline?
Cancer, tumour, cancer. The words fizzle and dissolve into nothing like aspirin in water. I exist in the third person. The room is blue. When Graham Caveney was a child the word 'cancer' was unspeakable, only uttered in jokes told by people too frightened to say the word in any other context. Now the boy with perpetual nervousness is a fifty-something man, and the oncologist in front of him is saying words evacuated of all meaning: Inoperable. Incurable. In this startling and deeply moving memoir from one of the great chroniclers of British working-class life, Graham Caveney charts a year of disease from diagnosis to past 'original sell-by-date'. Shot through with Northerness, tenderness, and Caveney's trademark humour, The Body in the Library reflects on an unfinished lifetime filled with books and with love. What's it like to realise that the books on your shelf will remain unread? That the book you are writing will be your last - that you have become your own deadline?