Unveiling the Fractured Self: Nina B. Lichtenstein’s Body Tells a Story Beyond Skin Deep
For this reader at least, unfamiliar aches and pains incite intense reflection, if not rumination, about what lies ahead for this body and its parts. But instead of allowing fear to guide her pen, Lichtenstein takes honest inventory of the parts that made her and make her who she is.
Body reminds me of one of my favorite books of all time, Mortal Lessons: Notes on the Art of Surgery by Richard Selzer. Selzer, a surgeon who practiced from 1960-1985, wrote beautifully about the human body and the human condition. Both Lichtenstein and Selzer have a chapter called “Belly,” in which they each dissect its position, purposes, and dispositions. For Lichtenstein, this body part incubated her three Viking-sized sons, digests the rich and delicious foods and drinks that make life good, and is a comfortable home for her organs. It is also the place that intuition originates: When we say “I have a gut feeling” about something, this is not just some hokey or superstitious expression, but an actual way our body communicates stored knowledge. Bellies can be soft or hard, and, as Lichtenstein learns, a belly is neither a moral failing nor criterion for worthiness: fat and fit is the best of all worlds.
