love – medhum.org

The End of Days by Bernard MacLaverty

Tony Miksanek — Mon, 03 Nov 2025 18:30:19 +0000

Autumn in Vienna, 1918. Menace circulated in the air itself, and fear was rampant as a global pandemic and a World War raged. Egon, an artist, and his wife Edi, six months pregnant, had enough money to live on but hardly any opportunities to spend it. Shortages of coal for heat and flour for bread were continuous. Edi has suddenly become very ill – trouble breathing, loss of appetite, exhaustion, fever, and explosive coughing that produces blood. It is the Spanish flu and pneumonia.

Egon devotedly cares for his sick wife despite her warning, “You will get it from me” (p111). Soon she is unresponsive. As Egon listens for a heartbeat with his ear against Edi’s motionless chest, he can only auscultate the distant, faint beat of his unborn child’s heart that is quickly silent. He tragically describes Edi’s corpse: “Her body being both cradle and coffin, within a minute” (p128). Egon feels compelled to make multiple sketches of his dead wife.

Before long, Egon experiences harsh bouts of coughing, fever, and chills. He becomes remorseful about the drawings he made of Edi and burns them in the kitchen stove. Egon gazes at the fire, knowing he too will die shortly but aware that he will be survived by all his other artwork.

This short story imagines the final days of Austrian painter Egon Schiele and his pregnant wife Edith. He died at age 28, just three days after she passed away, both victims of the 1918 influenza pandemic.

A stunning and sorrowful re-creation of what the end of life might have felt like for a young husband and his expectant wife during the 1918 pandemic. The tale highlights the risk of love, the inescapable weight of dread, and the connection between creativity and illness.

Primary Source
Blank Pages and Other Stories (pp105-138)

Publisher
W.W. Norton & Company, New York, 2022: 34 pages
A previous version of this review was published in the NYU Literature, Arts, and Medicine Database.
Web image by Medhum.org

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Tell Her Everything by Mirza Waheed

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Tell Her Everything by Mirza Waheed

Tony Miksanek — Mon, 20 Oct 2025 13:07:21 +0000

The narrator – a melancholic, retired Indian physician now living in London – rehearses his life story and its secrets that he plans on telling his adult daughter when she visits him from America. Dr. Kaiser Shah (sometimes called “Dr. K”) sent his only child, young Sara to a boarding school in America after her mother, Atiya died of cardiac arrest. Since then, father and daughter have rarely seen one another.

For more than twenty years, Dr. K worked in a hot town in the Middle East yet never got to know or understand its people. His only friend was a troubled hospital anesthetist, Biju. Dr. K was employed by the local hospital and assigned to the Accident and Emergency department. The hospital administrator, Sir Farhad (a man Dr. K feared and revered) was an enigmatic figure of authority. Dr. K was obsessed with accumulating wealth. When Farhad offered him an opportunity to earn extra money, Dr. K had no qualms accepting the new part-time position: punishment-surgeon. He would supervise criminal sentences requiring physical mutilation that were imposed by a judge.

Biju sarcastically told his friend, “You are at the cutting edge of your profession, Dr. K” (111). Yet there was no humor or humanity at presiding over the amputation of the hands of a father-son team of thieves or a maid convicted of stealing jewelry who underwent a similar clinical maiming. The hospital routinely accepted these “punishment cases” referred from the Corrections department and constructed a special operating theatre on the top floor for these “special ops.” Over a decade, Dr. K figured his involvement in this injurious punishment amounted to at least twenty cases.

Raucous Biju gets accused and convicted of stealing drugs from the hospital. His penalty was removal of a hand. Dr. K pleaded on behalf of Biju with the hospital administrator but to no avail. Dr. K was not convinced of Biju’s guilt and would not participate in the amputation of his friend’s hand. Dr. K resigned his post as punishment-surgeon and eventually settled in England with plenty of money for a comfortable albeit lonely life.

This disturbing and at times dastardly story displays more than a slight hint of Franz Kafka’s influence including the brutal application of “justice” and a byzantine bureaucracy. Even the physician-narrator’s nickname, Dr. K, appears to be a nod to Kafka.

The novel illustrates the personal and professional downward spiral that can occur when empathy and morality are subjugated to the pursuit of wealth and status. The story raises troubling questions about the participation of doctors in the legal system’s punishment of criminals.

The reliability of the narrator is tenuous. He may be in denial or perhaps his memory has grown fragile and corrupted. Remorse seems mostly absent. The story warns of the preponderance of lies we tell – to oneself and to others. Dr. K will not be mistaken for a model doctor or a good man. He has participated in hideous acts of cruelty, been an absent father, and placed the acquisition of money as his main priority. The opening line of the novel is a blunt confession and a succinct conclusion: “I did it for money” (3).

Tell Her Everything
Mirza Waheed
Melville House, Brooklyn, NY, 2022: 234 pages
A previous version of this review was published in the NYU Literature, Arts, and Medicine Database.
Web image by Medhum.org

Book Launch at the Lahore Literary Festival:

The Winter Soldier by Daniel Mason

Steven Field — Thu, 18 Sep 2025 17:47:13 +0000

When The Winter Soldier opens, Lucius Kszelewski, youngest son of a patrician Polish family living in Vienna, is on a train bound in the dead of winter for a field hospital in the Carpathian Mountains. It is 1915, and Austria-Hungary is at war with Russia. Lucius, a medical student, has completed only six semesters of medical school, but World War I has intervened, and due to a shortage of physicians in the army the government has decreed that students may graduate early, become doctors, and immediately be commissioned. Lucius has done so and is on his way to Lemnowice, a Galician village, where he believes he will work with other physicians and finally learn to be “a real doctor.”

When he arrives, he finds that the hospital is an expropriated village church overrun by rats and ravaged by typhus, and he is the only physician. The hospital is run by a nun, Sister Margarete, assisted only by orderlies, and the patient load runs the gamut from fractures and gunshot wounds to gangrenous legs and massive head trauma. The front is only a few kilometers away, and the wounded arrive continuously; the quiet and formal Sister Margarete confidently and unobtrusively guides him through rounds, surgeries, and battlefield medicine. Lucius is initially wary of her, perhaps a bit awed by her, and ultimately falls in love with her.

The transforming event is the arrival of the “winter soldier,” Jozsef Horvath, brought in from the snow mute and shell-shocked, but with no visible wounds. For Lucius, who is fascinated by diseases of the brain and mind, this patient presents a tremendous challenge. Lucius is sure that Horvath has “war neurosis,” what the British physicians of the time were calling shell shock and what we today would call PTSD, and he is determined to understand and heal him. Lucius and Margarete make slow progress with their patient, but his attempts to care for the patient have unintended effects, and Lucius must then deal with the consequences of his actions.

The war, and the hospital routine, go on. One day, while Lucius and Margarete are relaxing in the woods, Margarete runs off; Lucius returns to the village, but Margarete is not there. While Lucius and the staff search for her, Lucius gets lost; he stumbles onto a battlefield and is dragooned into service with a regiment of the Austrian infantry. He ultimately escapes and tries to make his way back to the field hospital, and to Margarete, but Lemnowice has fallen to the Russians. The hospital has been evacuated—and Margarete has disappeared. Lucius’ search for her will take him across the war-torn remnant of the Empire.

The Winter Soldier is a war story, a doctor story, and a romance, and it also poses a wrenching question of medical ethics. This is a lot to ask of any novel, but Mason pulls it off with aplomb. The writing is lyrical; the author’s descriptions of the variation of the seasons in the Carpathian forests are poetic and beautifully detailed, and his characterizations are finely drawn. We can not only clearly see, but also feel that we know, these people, not only the major figures of the doctor and the nurse, but also the orderlies, the Austrian soldiers, Lucius’ somewhat bemused Professor Zimmer, and Lucius’ parents (who are marvels of characterization: the retired military officer father who lives on past glory and cannot see his son for who he is, and the controlling, clever, acid-tongued society grande dame mother who can only see her son for who she thinks he should be). Lucius and Margarete feel real, and their interaction feels real…and complicated. The historical setting comes alive with detail, and the reader truly feels that they are in that place at that time, whether at a formal dinner in a Viennese mansion or treating war casualties in a Galician backwater. And the medical details are correct, not just the medical terms but even the way in which they are used in dialogue, which is not surprising, as Mason is a physician; it isn’t always easy to get this right, but Mason does.

But the true heart of the medical story here is the ethical quandary in which Lucius finds himself—the complex nature of the doctor-patient relationship, the motivations which drive it, and the decisions we make. Although this takes up a relatively short page count, its repercussions continue throughout the novel.

The novel has a particular, though minor, resonance for the time of COVID-19 (though it was released two years before the pandemic occurred). The action of the novel is set in motion when, due to a war-induced doctor shortage, medical schools decided to allow upper-level students like Lucius to graduate early and become doctors, and then immediately posted them, often with little practical experience, to field hospitals near the front lines. Several American medical schools took a superficially similar action in Spring 2020 when doctors were desperately needed to help staff hospital units during the coronavirus pandemic, although this only applied to fourth-years who were but a few months short of graduation and would have already had the clinical experience which Lucius lacked. So while the situations aren’t entirely analogous, the concept of students opting into a trial by fire is.

The Winter Soldier can be appreciated for its historical perspective, its story of human relationships, the ethical dilemma it poses, and the beauty of its prose. Or enjoyed for what it is—a great read.

The Winter Soldier
Daniel Mason
New York, Little Brown & Co., 2018; 318 pp.

A previous version of this review was published in the NYU Literature, Arts, and Medicine Database.
Web image created by Medhum.org

Did You Ever Have a Family? by Bill Clegg

Howard Trachtman — Tue, 10 Jun 2025 13:47:29 +0000

One of the best features of the apartment building where I live is the three bookcases that are shoved together in the basement on the path to the laundry room. It is a convenient place for residents to deposit books they have read and so prevent them from piling up on their desks, bedside tables, or windowsills. I pass by the bookcases nearly every morning and this novel was my most recent pickup. It is not a new release, and the draw was the bright, orange-colored cover and the relatively large print that seemed inviting to my aging eyes. It was a fortuitous choice

The story begins abruptly. A woman named June is driving westward alone in her car, destination unknown. She is trying desperately to escape the small town near Litchfield, Connecticut where she grew up, after the funerals for four people who have died in a lethal housefire — her ex-husband Adam, her boyfriend Luke, her daughter Lolly, and her daughter’s fiancé Will. The tragedy is compounded by the timing of the fire, the night before the scheduled wedding of June’s daughter.

Bill Clegg

In a format that is increasingly common in current literature, the story unfolds from the unique perspective of people connected in various ways to those who perished and those who survived the disaster. The gallery of characters includes June, Lolly, Luke’s mother Lydia, the lesbian couple who own the seaside hotel where June hides out, the Native American woman who cleans the rooms in the hotel, Will’s parents, and a fidgety, socially awkward adolescent who has an unhealthy fixation on Lydia. Each chapter is told from the vantage point of one person, in their voice, in their thoughts. The narrative is in the first person except for the chapters that recount June and Lydia’s experience. There is minimal dialogue, mostly stream of consciousness story telling. Insight emerges from the action. The chapters weave together seamlessly, and you feel yourself drawn more and more into this microcosm of people struggling to make sense of a senseless tragedy. It would be a category error to call the novel a page turner. But there is a profound mystery at the core of the story, an appreciation of the ineffable wonder at how our lives play out and the complexity of our interactions with one another.

This haunting book incorporates many classic themes that characterize literature that can engage us – the pain of the sudden loss of loved ones, loneliness, regret for mistakes made and actions not taken. It echoes Tolstoy’s notion that every unhappy family is unhappy in its own way. Were it even simply a tale of coping with heartbreak and learning from life’s catastrophes, this would be a notable book. But there is an unexpected element that emerges from the prose that raises this novel to another level and makes it truly worth reading.

Amid the grief and wreckage of personal stories, June and Lydia’s stories gradually move to the narrative center. Each one is wracked with guilt and remorse for ill-thought-out actions that caused a loved one profound emotional pain and hurt. Faced with death of the loved one, they feel powerless to get past their feelings of worthlessness and shame. But as the story gradually unfolds and moves inexorably to its conclusion, each woman becomes more acutely aware of what she has done and is willing to accept responsibility. This self-knowledge culminates in a moment of genuine forgiveness and a sense of rebirth,

In the Jewish tradition, forgiveness for sins must be preceded by a verbal recognition of wrongdoing, regret for what has been done, and a public resolve to avoid doing the same thing again if the opportunity to sin presents itself in the future. But there is a wrinkle depending on the nature of the sin. If it is directed to God, confession and repentance are enough to wipe the slate clean. But for sins committed against people, confession and repentance alone are insufficient. True forgiveness and closure are not achieved until forgiveness is granted by the person who was injured. Did You Ever Have a Family? describes and captures this interpersonal healing process in lyrical prose. Moreover, the sense of rebirth that animates the climax of the novel recapitulates the Jewish notion that a person who achieves genuine repentance after committing a sin is a new person, completely different than the person who committed the crime.

There have been recent books like A Children’s Bible by Lydia Millet that create a storyline that incorporates biblical elements. Did you ever have a family?’ is different. The architecture of the novel and its human voices are unequivocally modern. But the deeper structure has a profoundly religious sensibility; it grapples with spiritual themes and ideas normally taken up in non-secular settings. The book is infused with a heartfelt intensity that is unusual in contemporary fiction. I’m sure the author would be gratified to know that his book has beautifully articulated the regenerative power of forgiveness in a manner that transcends the bounds of plain fiction.

Did You Ever Have a Family?
Bill Clegg
Reviewed by Howard Trachtman
Simon & Schuster, Inc
Published 2015
Paperback version, Scout Press, 2016, pp291
Web Photo by Norbert Buduczki

The Grasshopper by Anton Chekhov

Jack Coulehan — Sun, 11 May 2025 14:40:22 +0000

In this story, Dr. Dymov is an earnest and rather boring young physician, who is preoccupied with his patients and his research. Olga, his wife, craves the excitement and gaiety of the artistic life. She discovers a new lease on romance with Ryabovsky, a colorful landscape artist, who takes her on a Volga River cruise. As they spoon under the stars, Olga and her lover make light of her bumptious stay-at-home husband. After she returns from the cruise, Dymov forgives her infidelity, but in Olga’s mind, his forgiveness proves to be another strike against the poor slob, since she can’t stand his complaisant devotion. She runs back to Ryabovsky for a while, until he makes it clear that he is no longer interested in her.

Then one day Dymov develops diphtheria, evidently contracted by “sucking up mucus through a pipette from a boy with diphtheria. And what for? It was stupid… just from folly.” Dymov soon becomes seriously ill and then dies. Suddenly, Olga is overcome with guilt and grief. Too late, Olga realizes that her husband was a hero.

Chekhov based this story on the real-life love affair between his good friends Isaak Levitan, a well-known (and married) artist, and Lika Mizinova, a young unmarried teacher, who had for many years been infatuated with Chekhov while he toyed with her affection. In this interpretation, Chekhov bases the character of Dymov largely on himself, portrayed as a dedicated and disciplined worker who has no time to spare for frivolous romance. However, in reality, Chekhov had playful relationships with many women, but eschewed commitment until late in life.

Another way of looking at the story is the dramatic tension between practicality (science, public health, and social consciousness), as exemplified by Dymov; and emotion (art, adventure, romance), as exemplified by Ryabovsky. Olga at first chooses the latter, but Dymov’s death turns the tables. After he becomes a martyr to science, she suddenly finds him more interesting and mourns her loss. Was his death the result of a foolish mistake? Did her infidelity play a role, perhaps by distracting him while he was aspirating the pus? Or might Dymov have deliberately performed the foolish procedure, realizing that the infection would cause his death?

The Wife & Other Stories. The Tales of Chekhov. Volume 5, New York, The Ecco Press, 1985.
Translated from the Russian by Constance Garnett.
Shelby Foote (Ed.) Chekhov’s Later Short Stories. 1888-1903, New York, The Modern Library, 1999.
Translated from the Russian by Constance Garnett.

A previous version of this review was published in the NYU Literature, Arts, and Medicine Database (Litmed).

Reviews of Chekhov’s Stories

A Tale of Two Museums

Ravi Shankar — Tue, 04 Mar 2025 14:52:02 +0000

Unni and I were talking about our undergraduate years and a batch photograph taken during our basic science days. Back then, mobile phones with cameras were absent; selfies were still in the future. The batch photograph brought together our teachers and our classmates in joyful harmony. Unni was telling me how he feared cameras and was absent for the group photo. He mentioned that it was an irony of life that someone who feared cameras then would later go on to start a photography museum. And not just one museum, but two.

Unni–Dr Unnikrishnan Pulikkal–was my classmate and dorm-mate during the medical course. He had a keen interest in the arts right from his student days during MBBS, our undergraduate medical course, and was a wonderful painter. He told me about his switch to photography, though he continued to paint and make sculptures and other artistic creations. And In addition to creating art, he has created venues to display art; Unni, who hails from Kodakara in Thrissur district of the southern Indian state of Kerala, has started two museums in his hometown, in close proximity to the town’s hospital.

The Art Museum of Love is one of the few museums in the world devoted to representations of love in art. When I said I wanted to visit, Unni gave me precise directions about reaching the place; it is located at the Azhakam service road about a kilometer from Kodakara town. The early December afternoon was hot. The climate has become warmer over the last three decades; temperatures over 40 degrees Celsius are now common during the summer. Climate change has hit Kerala hard.

The art museum is delightfully air conditioned. I interacted with the two ladies managing the reception desk who told me that before I went in, I had to take off my shoes. I liked the design of the museum. Plenty of planning and thought had gone into the layout and the display rooms. The rooms are small and provide you with an intimate experience; the lighting is superb and highlights the exhibits. There are also spaces to sit and relax. You can read and reflect. The display boards provide detailed information about the exhibits, which were tastefully designed.

Various types of love are addressed. Most of us are very familiar with romantic love. The love of a family, love between siblings and love between parents and their children and love of an extended family and society are also explored. Spiritual love is common in the Indian tradition. I could see a few of Unni’s paintings and photographs on display. Other art forms were also included in the exhibit. There were river stones sculpted by nature and others carved by skilled human hands on display. The driftwood sculptures fascinated me; in Nepal, I had a good friend, Dr Awate, who was fond of collecting driftwood as he hiked the hills of western Nepal. He mentioned that with some tender loving care some of these can become works of art.

Ancient India had a liberal approach to romance and love. Traditional paintings had strict rules and regulations. Within these boundaries you were free to explore your creativity. Depictions of the Hindu God Krishna were prominent in the museum. Different traditional art forms from South Asia depicting Lord Krishna were on display. Artists consecrated their work to the lord, and Lord Krishna has been depicted in art forms and styles of painting throughout India. The diversity of these art forms makes them an interesting area of study. Tanjore paintings from Tamil Nadu are renowned for their rich colours and extensive use of gold foil. These have more detailed and regal patterns. Madhubani paintings from North Bihar (the Mithila region) use earthy colours and are usually done in geometric patterns with bold outlines (I was gifted a Mithila painting by Darbhanga Medical College in Bihar, India; the painting still hangs in my old office in Nepal). Rajput paintings are known for their opulent colour.

Pattachitra is a vibrant art form that originates from the holy place of Jagannath Puri, Odisha, in eastern India. It is also extensively practised in West Bengal. Traditional Warli paintings– the Warlis are a tribe in Maharashtra near the border with Gujarat–of Lord Krishna were also on display as were Gond paintings of love.. Looking at these paintings I was struck by the cultural unity within diversity in India.

The art museum has two floors and also has a section on erotic art that has a warning about the explicit nature of the material on display at the entrance door. Till today the public has been very accepting of this section of the museum. The museum also has a community space at the side where events can be organized. Several events have used this space; for example, the museum held a competition for letters and poems expressing love to be sent to the museum’s postal address, and some of the winning entries were on display. The Art Museum of Love has created Instagrammable objects and locations for selfies and social media postings. The website of the museum (Sneha Museum in Malayalam, the native language of the southern Indian state of Kerala) is https://lovemuseum.life/. The museum is also on various social media.

I went with Unni to another museum he curates and manages. Photomuse is the museum of photography. Photomuse was inaugurated by Herbert Ascherman Jr., a renowned US photographer who mainly works in black and white and the rare art of platinum photography. He is the mentor and guide of Dr Unni and has contributed several pieces of his work to the Art Museum of Love and to Photomuse. This museum was in operation at a different location for a few years and in early 2024 shifted to a permanent location at Mattathur near Kodakara. The website of the museum, which has multiple features and offerings (including collections mainly devoted to cameras and photo equipment, a journal, programs, and a gallery showcasing various exhibitions previously mounted at the museum, among others), is https://photomuse.in/. During my visit the first gallery was hosting an exhibition titled “Silence & Chaos.” The exhibition had photographs by different photographers, some depicting silence and others depicting chaos. The major gallery hosts cameras and photographic equipment from various generations and time periods. The old pin hole camera, bellows camera, the auto focus film cameras, polaroid camera and SLRs using film are all on display. Each camera has a small descriptive note providing more information about the object. The pride of the collection is the large format Vageshwari cameras that were manufactured in India and were among the best field cameras in the world. My friend Sanjay Mhatre, an architect, had introduced me to large format cameras and these always fascinated me. The extensive collection is also documented online at https://photomuse.in/index.php/collections

The museum holds exhibitions of photo collections periodically and these can also be accessed online. Photomuse has a good collection of old photographs; the museum has 1,765 antique prints in its collection. There are a few depicting the birth of independent India. I was intrigued by the photo of the old Cochin Forest tramways, which operated from 1907 to 1963 and enabled the transport of wood from the Parambikulam forest to Chalakudy town. The museum also publishes a journal both in print and online at http://journal.photomuse.in/

The small town of Kodakara near the Thrissur-Ernakulam highway has two museums that are cultural icons and social gathering places. Dr Unni also has created an open-air art gallery on the premises of the hospital he runs in the same location. Unni, through his arts initiatives, reminds us of the close connection between art and medicine. There are several educational institutions around Thrissur and health students can learn about the close interplay between art and medicine at the museum. These museums and galleries have put Kodakara on the international arts map. So, the next time you visit Kerala, which some have called God’s own country, please do plan a trip to Kodakara. The place is not difficult to reach. The museums are open from 10 am to 6 pm Tuesday to Sunday (closed Mondays). In an increasingly bitter and divisive world, come discover the gentle and healing power of the arts and of love!

Interview with the Uber-Talented Unnikrishnan Pulikkal, MD

Ravi Shankar Aug 6, 2024

Dr. Unni, a medical practitioner and artist, discussed his rural upbringing, passion for painting and photography, founding PhotoMuse, and balancing art with medicine.

love – medhum.org

The End of Days by Bernard MacLaverty

More Posts from this Author

Tell Her Everything by Mirza Waheed

Book Launch at the Lahore Literary Festival:

The Winter Soldier by Daniel Mason

Did You Ever Have a Family? by Bill Clegg

The Grasshopper by Anton Chekhov

Reviews of Chekhov’s Stories

A Tale of Two Museums