Scan barcode
A review by gadicohen93
The Emperor of All Maladies: A Biography of Cancer by Siddhartha Mukherjee
4.0
Hmm. My friend told me earlier today that I wasn't gonna like Don Delillo because he was "more style than substance," or something like that. I can honestly say that I took one star off this book because it was more substance than style.
What I mean is, I liked this book a whole lot. Information frothed over the top of pages like high tide; I learned so much. I understood almost everything. The humanity of it all really burst through. But I also zoned out some parts of the book, mostly because the writing was so clear, so straightforward, that I just got lost in the history and the science and couldn’t help but gaze down at the page numbers, flip through to see when the next chapter was coming up, then return wearily to the passage I’d found a tad tiresome.
The writing was so clear. It was too clear. The author (who I must say is some divine all-powerful creature, regardless of my momentary criticism) took the tons of research he’d complied and fitted it into a writing canvas that riveted at times, but also seemed repetitive at others. I can’t really blame him that much though, because the history of cancer IS quite repetitive: Scientist sees cancer, scientist studies cancer, scientist thinks of solution, scientist experiments with solution, solution becomes universal, etc. Obviously with some exceptions.
I loved the human anecdotes sprayed throughout. I loved the ending. I loved the tone. This book is so important. I’m basically bound to get cancer someday, I think, with my family history, my perpetual sunburns, my Ashkenazi Jewness. I remember I used to fret about the disease back in middle school ever since this boy a grade above me died from brain cancer. The thought of it haunted me for a while, and there was a period where I’d just walk up to my mom and tell her I felt scared. At least now I know that cancer is not entirely a mystery, and that we’re on the road to uncover the part that remains so.
What I mean is, I liked this book a whole lot. Information frothed over the top of pages like high tide; I learned so much. I understood almost everything. The humanity of it all really burst through. But I also zoned out some parts of the book, mostly because the writing was so clear, so straightforward, that I just got lost in the history and the science and couldn’t help but gaze down at the page numbers, flip through to see when the next chapter was coming up, then return wearily to the passage I’d found a tad tiresome.
The writing was so clear. It was too clear. The author (who I must say is some divine all-powerful creature, regardless of my momentary criticism) took the tons of research he’d complied and fitted it into a writing canvas that riveted at times, but also seemed repetitive at others. I can’t really blame him that much though, because the history of cancer IS quite repetitive: Scientist sees cancer, scientist studies cancer, scientist thinks of solution, scientist experiments with solution, solution becomes universal, etc. Obviously with some exceptions.
I loved the human anecdotes sprayed throughout. I loved the ending. I loved the tone. This book is so important. I’m basically bound to get cancer someday, I think, with my family history, my perpetual sunburns, my Ashkenazi Jewness. I remember I used to fret about the disease back in middle school ever since this boy a grade above me died from brain cancer. The thought of it haunted me for a while, and there was a period where I’d just walk up to my mom and tell her I felt scared. At least now I know that cancer is not entirely a mystery, and that we’re on the road to uncover the part that remains so.