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A man receives a visit from his cancer. “Hello,” says the cancer. “I’myour cancer. I thought it would be a good idea if we got to know eachother a bit”. It sounds like a bad joke. But it’s not a joke at all. The cancer moves in to the man’s house. A very nice house, near N®mes. The house of a writer – a writer who likes a drink. Seven or eight bottles of wine a day. White, of course – much more refreshing than red.

But however much one rolls around all day like an old tub without a mast, that’s no reason to die, above all from a brain tumour, even if it is inoperable.

Kill it. That’s the first thing that comes to mind. Kill this idiot cancer, however friendly it is. Push it off the nearest rooftop.

Throttle it. Get hold of a rifle and shoot it in the gut.

But the cancer’s immortal. It picks itself up every time and sticks to the writer like glue. Avery devoted cancer.

It’s a problem with no solution.


God alone knows what goes on in a writer’s mind.