The Fictioning Horror Sale
 
 

Recently Viewed clear list


Original Essays | Yesterday, 10:42am

Merritt Tierce: IMG Has My Husband Read It?



My first novel, Love Me Back, was published on September 16. Writing the book took seven years, and along the way three chapters were published in... Continue »
  1. $16.77 Sale Hardcover add to wish list

    Love Me Back

    Merritt Tierce 9780385538077

spacer
Qualifying orders ship free.
$28.95
New Hardcover
Ships in 1 to 3 days
Add to Wishlist
Qty Store Section
3 Local Warehouse Literature- A to Z
12 Remote Warehouse Literature- A to Z

Cutting for Stone

by

Cutting for Stone Cover

 

 

Excerpt

The Coming

After eight months spent in the obscurity of our mothers womb, my brother, Shiva, and I came into the world in the late afternoon of the twentieth of September in the year of grace 1954. We took our first breaths at an elevation of eight thousand feet in the thin air of Addis Ababa, capital city of Ethiopia. The miracle of our birth took place in Missing Hospitals Operating Theater 3, the very room where our mother, Sister Mary Joseph Praise, spent most of her working hours, and in which she had been most fulfilled.

When our mother, a nun of the Diocesan Carmelite Order of Madras, unexpectedly went into labor that September morning, the big rain in Ethiopia had ended, its rattle on the corrugated tin roofs of Missing ceasing abruptly like a chatterbox cut off in midsentence. Over night, in that hushed silence, the meskel flowers bloomed, turning the hillsides of Addis Ababa into gold. In the meadows around Missing the sedge won its battle over mud, and a brilliant carpet now swept right up to the paved threshold of the hospital, holding forth the promise of something more substantial than cricket, croquet, or shuttlecock.

Missing sat on a verdant rise, the irregular cluster of whitewashed one- and two-story buildings looking as if they were pushed up from the ground in the same geologic rumble that created the Entoto Mountains. Troughlike flower beds, fed by the runoff from the roof gutters, surrounded the squat buildings like a moat. Matron Hirsts roses overtook the walls, the crimson blooms framing every window and reaching to the roof. So fertile was that loamy soil that Matron—Missing Hospitals wise and sensible leader—cautioned us against stepping into it barefoot lest we sprout new toes.

Five trails flanked by shoulder-high bushes ran away from the main hospital buildings like spokes of a wheel, leading to five thatched-roof bungalows that were all but hidden by copse, by hedgerows, by wild eucalyptus and pine. It was Matrons intent that Missing resemble an arboretum, or a corner of Kensington Gardens (where, before she came to Africa, she used to walk as a young nun), or Eden before the Fall.

Missing was really Mission Hospital, a word that on the Ethiopian tongue came out with a hiss so it sounded like “Missing.” A clerk in the Ministry of Health who was a fresh high-school graduate had typed out the missing hospital on the license, a phonetically correct spelling as far as he was concerned. A reporter for the Ethiopian Herald perpetuated this misspelling. When Matron Hirst had approached the clerk in the ministry to correct this, he pulled out his original typescript. “See for yourself, madam. Quod erat demonstrandum it is Missing,” he said, as if hed proved Pythagorass theorem, the suns central position in the solar system, the roundness of the earth, and Missings precise location at its imagined corner. And so Missing it was.

Not a cry or a groan escaped from Sister Mary Joseph Praise while in the throes of her cataclysmic labor. But just beyond the swinging door in the room adjoining Operating Theater 3, the oversize autoclave (donated by the Lutheran church in Zurich) bellowed and wept for my mother while its scalding steam sterilized the surgical instruments and towels that would be used on her. After all, it was in the corner of the autoclave room, right next to that stainless-steel behemoth, that my mother kept a sanctuary for herself during the seven years she spent at Missing before our rude arrival. Her one-piece desk-and-chair, rescued from a defunct mission school, and bearing the gouged frustration of many a pupil, faced the wall. Her white cardigan, which I am told she often slipped over her shoulders when she was between operations, lay over the back of the chair.

On the plaster above the desk my mother had tacked up a calendar print of Berninis famous sculpture of St. Teresa of Avila. The figure of St. Teresa lies limp, as if in a faint, her lips parted in ecstasy, her eyes unfocused, lids half closed. On either side of her, a voyeuristic chorus peers down from the prie-dieux. With a faint smile and a body more muscular than befits his youthful face, a boy angel stands over the saintly, voluptuous sister. The fingertips of his left hand lift the edge of the cloth covering her bosom. In his right hand he holds an arrow as delicately as a violinist holds a bow.

Why this picture? Why St. Teresa, Mother?

As a little boy of four, I took myself away to this windowless room to study the image. Courage alone could not get me past that heavy door, but my sense that she was there, my obsession to know the nun who was my mother, gave me strength. I sat next to the autoclave which rumbled and hissed like a waking dragon, as if the hammering of my heart had roused the beast. Gradually, as I sat at my mothers desk, a peace would come over me, a sense of communion with her.

I learned later that no one had dared remove her cardigan from where it sat draped on the chair. It was a sacred object. But for a four-yearold, everything is sacred and ordinary. I pulled that Cuticura-scented garment around my shoulders. I rimmed the dried-out inkpot with my nail, tracing a path her fingers had taken. Gazing up at the calendar print just as she must have while sitting there in that windowless room, I was transfixed by that image. Years later, I learned that St. Teresas recurrent vision of the angel was called the transverberation, which the dictionary said was the soul “inflamed” by the love of God, and the heart “pierced” by divine love; the metaphors of her faith were also the metaphors of medicine. At four years of age, I didnt need words like “transverberation” to feel reverence for that image. Without photographs of her to go by, I couldnt help but imagine that the woman in the picture was my mother, threatened and about to be ravished by the spear-wielding boy-angel. “When are you coming, Mama?” I would ask, my small voice echoing off the cold tile. When are you coming?

I would whisper my answer: “By God!” That was all I had to go by: Dr. Ghoshs declaration the time Id first wandered in there and hed come looking for me and had stared at the picture of St. Teresa over my shoulders; he lifted me in his strong arms and said in that voice of his that was every bit a match for the autoclave: “She is CUM-MING, by God!”

Forty-six and four years have passed since my birth, and miraculously I have the opportunity to return to that room. I find I am too large for that chair now, and the cardigan sits atop my shoulders like the lace amice of a priest. But chair, cardigan, and calendar print of transverberation are still there. I, Marion Stone, have changed, but little else has. Being in that unaltered room propels a thumbing back through time and memory. The unfading print of Berninis statue of St. Teresa (now framed and under glass to preserve what my mother tacked up) seems to demand this. I am forced to render some order to the events of my life, to say it began here, and then because of this, that happened, and this is how the end connects to the beginning, and so here I am.

We come unbidden into this life, and if we are lucky we find a purpose beyond starvation, misery, and early death which, lest we forget, is the common lot. I grew up and I found my purpose and it was to become a physician. My intent wasnt to save the world as much as to heal myself.

Few doctors will admit this, certainly not young ones, but subconsciously, in entering the profession, we must believe that ministering to others will heal our woundedness. And it can. But it can also deepen the wound.

I chose the specialty of surgery because of Matron, that steady presence during my boyhood and adolescence. “What is the hardest thing you can possibly do?” she said when I went to her for advice on the darkest day of the first half of my life. I squirmed. How easily Matron probed the gap between ambition and expediency. “Why must I do what is hardest?”

“Because, Marion, you are an instrument of God. Dont leave the instrument sitting in its case, my son. Play! Leave no part of your instrument unexplored. Why settle for ‘Three Blind Mice when you can play the ‘Gloria?”

How unfair of Matron to evoke that soaring chorale which always made me feel that I stood with every mortal creature looking up to the heavens in dumb wonder. She understood my unformed character.

“But, Matron, I cant dream of playing Bach, the ‘Gloria . . . ,” I said under my breath. Id never played a string or wind instrument. I couldnt read music.

“No, Marion,” she said, her gaze soft, reaching for me, her gnarled hands rough on my cheeks. “No, not Bachs ‘Gloria. Yours! Your ‘Gloria lives within you. The greatest sin is not finding it, ignoring what God made possible in you.”

I was temperamentally better suited to a cognitive discipline, to an introspective field—internal medicine, or perhaps psychiatry. The sight of the operating theater made me sweat. The idea of holding a scalpel caused coils to form in my belly. (It still does.) Surgery was the most difficult thing I could imagine.

And so I became a surgeon.

Thirty years later, I am not known for speed, or daring, or technical genius. Call me steady, call me plodding; say I adopt the style and technique that suits the patient and the particular situation and Ill consider that high praise. I take heart from my fellow physicians who come to me when they themselves must suffer the knife. They know that Marion Stone will be as involved after the surgery as before and during. They know I have no use for surgical aphorisms such as “When in doubt, cut it out” or “Why wait when you can operate” other than for how reliably they reveal the shallowest intellects in our field. My father, for whose skills as a surgeon I have the deepest respect, says, “The operation with the best outcome is the one you decide not to do.” Knowing when not to operate, knowing when I am in over my head, knowing when to call for the assistance of a surgeon of my fathers caliber—that kind of talent, that kind of “brilliance,” goes unheralded.

On one occasion with a patient in grave peril, I begged my father to operate. He stood silent at the bedside, his fingers lingering on the patients pulse long after he had registered the heart rate, as if he needed the touch of skin, the thready signal in the radial artery to catalyze his decision. In his taut expression I saw complete concentration. I imagined I could see the cogs turning in his head; I imagined I saw the shimmer of tears in his eyes. With utmost care he weighed one option against another. At last, he shook his head, and turned away.

I followed. “Dr. Stone,” I said, using his title though I longed to cry out, Father! “An operation is his only chance,” I said. In my heart I knew the chance was infinitesimally small, and the first whiff of anesthesia might end it all. My father put his hand on my shoulder. He spoke to me gently, as if to a junior colleague rather than his son. “Marion, remember the Eleventh Commandment,” he said. “Thou shall not operate on the day of a patients death.”

I remember his words on full-moon nights in Addis Ababa when knives are flashing and rocks and bullets are flying, and when I feel as if I am standing in an abattoir and not in Operating Theater 3, my skin flecked with the grist and blood of strangers. I remember. But you dont always know the answers before you operate. One operates in the now. Later, the retrospectoscope, that handy tool of the wags and pundits, the conveners of the farce we call M&M—morbidity and mortality conference—will pronounce your decision right or wrong. Life, too, is like that. You live it forward, but understand it backward. It is only when you stop and look to the rear that you see the corpse caught under your wheel.

Now, in my fiftieth year, I venerate the sight of the abdomen or chest laid open. Im ashamed of our human capacity to hurt and maim one another, to desecrate the body. Yet it allows me to see the cabalistic harmony of heart peeking out behind lung, of liver and spleen consulting each other under the dome of the diaphragm—these things leave me speechless. My fingers “run the bowel” looking for holes that a blade or bullet might have created, coil after glistening coil, twenty-three feet of it compacted into such a small space. The gut that has slithered past my fingers like this in the African night would by now reach the Cape of Good Hope, and I have yet to see the serpents head. But I do see the ordinary miracles under skin and rib and muscle, visions concealed from their owner. Is there a greater privilege on earth?

At such moments I remember to thank my twin brother, Shiva—Dr. Shiva Praise Stone—to seek him out, to find his reflection in the glass panel that separates the two operating theaters, and to nod my thanks because he allows me to be what I am today. A surgeon. According to Shiva, life is in the end about fixing holes. Shiva didnt speak in metaphors. Fixing holes is precisely what he did. Still, its an apt metaphor for our profession. But theres another kind of hole, and that is the wound that divides family. Sometimes this wound occurs at the moment of birth, sometimes it happens later. We are all fixing what is broken. It is the task of a lifetime. Well leave much unfinished for the next generation.

Born in Africa, living in exile in America, then returning at last to Africa, I am proof that geography is destiny. Destiny has brought me back to the precise coordinates of my birth, to the very same operating theater where I was born. My gloved hands share the space above the table in Operating Theater 3 that my mother and fathers hands once occupied.

Some nights the crickets cry zaa-zee, zaa-zee, thousands of them drowning out the coughs and grunts of the hyenas in the hillsides. Suddenly, nature turns quiet. It is as if roll call is over and it is time now in the darkness to find your mate and retreat. In the ensuing vacuum of silence, I hear the high-pitched humming of the stars and I feel exultant, thankful for my insignificant place in the galaxy. It is at such times that I feel my indebtedness to Shiva.

Twin brothers, we slept in the same bed till our teens, our heads touching, our legs and torsos angled away. We outgrew that intimacy, but I still long for it, for the proximity of his skull. When I wake to the gift of yet another sunrise, my first thought is to rouse him and say, I owe you the sight of morning.

What I owe Shiva most is this: to tell the story. It is one my mother, Sister Mary Joseph Praise, did not reveal and my fearless father, Thomas Stone, ran from, and which I had to piece together. Only the telling can heal the rift that separates my brother and me. Yes, I have infinite faith in the craft of surgery, but no surgeon can heal the kind of wound that divides two brothers. Where silk and steel fail, story must succeed. To begin at the beginning . . .

What Our Readers Are Saying

Add a comment for a chance to win!
Average customer rating based on 39 comments:

Susan F, January 30, 2013 (view all comments by Susan F)
Inticate plot and fascinating characters make this book one of my all-time favorites! This book also covers a brief, but accurate history of medicine.
Was this comment helpful? | Yes | No
(3 of 5 readers found this comment helpful)
Richard Thies, January 2, 2013 (view all comments by Richard Thies)
I found Cutting for Stone fascinating. The India/Ethiopia/U.S. setting gave a lot of cultural issues to think about. The medical treatments were eye-opening and well presented. The surprises gave some mystery, excitement and emotional pull. It was a most satisfying book.
Was this comment helpful? | Yes | No
(2 of 4 readers found this comment helpful)
kuruvi, May 26, 2012 (view all comments by kuruvi)
Simply put: an amazing novel! A sweeping tale set in three continents, it has everything--desire, commitment, love, passion, abandonment, sacrifice, history, hope, redemption to name some of the themes explored in this book, and Verghese stitches each theme seamlessly and the result is a beautiful quilt! The narrative is simple but eloquent. The characters are so real, and each one of them remains in your memory long after the book is finished. I particularly loved reading about Ethiopia's politics, history and culture. Verghese's simplicity describing the challenges, hard work, pain, and rewards of the medical profession is very impressive. I have read this book thrice and I know I will read it again. Cutting for Stone leaves me wanting more from Verghese, and I will wait to see if he can cut a stone that will outshine this gem!
Was this comment helpful? | Yes | No
(3 of 5 readers found this comment helpful)
View all 39 comments

Product Details

ISBN:
9780375414497
Author:
Verghese, Abraham
Publisher:
Knopf Publishing Group
Author:
Verghese, A.
Author:
Vaillant, John
Subject:
General
Subject:
Fathers and sons
Subject:
Brothers
Subject:
Literary
Subject:
Medical
Subject:
Sagas
Subject:
General Fiction
Subject:
Literature-A to Z
Edition Description:
Cloth
Publication Date:
20090231
Binding:
HARDCOVER
Grade Level:
A<br><br>&#8220;An epic tale about love, abandonme
Language:
English
Pages:
288
Dimensions:
9 x 6 in 1 lb

Other books you might like

  1. The White Tiger
    Used Trade Paper $5.50
  2. My Own Country: A Doctor's Story
    Used Trade Paper $7.50
  3. The Piano Teacher
    Used Trade Paper $5.50
  4. Hotel on the Corner of Bitter and Sweet
    Used Book Club Paperback $5.95
  5. Lark and Termite
    Used Hardcover $7.50
  6. The Unknown Knowns
    Used Trade Paper $2.50

Related Subjects


Fiction and Poetry » Literature » A to Z
Fiction and Poetry » Literature » Featured Titles
Rare Books » Fiction and Poetry » Literature

Cutting for Stone Used Hardcover
0 stars - 0 reviews
$28.95 In Stock
Product details 288 pages Knopf Publishing Group - English 9780375414497 Reviews:
"Staff Pick" by ,

I'm used to reading good authors, but Verghese is so good, he blew me away. He writes with such detached compassion that Ethiopia becomes your homeland, and Matron, Ghosh, Marion and Shiva Stone, and all the rest become your friends, your neighbors, and your family. Do yourself a favor: read this book.

"Staff Pick" by ,

Cutting for Stone is both an excellent read and a gift that keeps on giving: I've recommended this book to many, many customers — some of whom have come back to thank me personally and buy more copies as gifts. The plot travels in many diverse directions, but eventually converges to create one solid story; you'll love, laugh, hate, and cry throughout its panoramic unfolding. This is such an outstanding novel, one can only dream of an encore.

"Review" by , "Abraham Verghese has long been one of my favorite authors. Yet, much as I admire his abundant gifts as both writer and physician, nothing could have prepared me for the great achievement of his first novel. Here is an extraordinary imagination, artfully shaped and forcefully developed, wholly given in service to a human story that is deeply moving, utterly gripping, and, indeed, unforgettable. Cutting for Stone is a work of literature as noble and dramatic as that ancient practice-medicine-that lies at the heart of this magnificent novel."
"Review" by , "Empathy for our frail human condition resonates throughout Abraham Verghese's Cutting for Stone. By tracing the development of a narrator unlike any other in our literature-from his nearly mythic beginnings in Ethiopia to his immigrant life in contemporary America-Verghese demonstrates that the supreme skill of a physician lies not in his hands but in his heart. No contemporary novelist has written so well about the human body. Cutting for Stone is an amazing and moving achievement which reminds us of the miracle of being alive."
"Review" by , "I finished Abraham Verghese's Cutting for Stone last night — it's absolutely fantastic! Holy cow, this book should be a huge success. It has everything: nuns, conjoined twins, civil war, and medicine — I was thinking that if Vikram Seth and Oliver Sacks were to collaborate on a four-hour episode of Grey's Anatomy set in Africa, they could only hope to come up with something this moving and entertaining. I would love to offer a quote for this. But what sort of quote do you think would be most helpful? Should it be: 'a luminous exploration of the boundaries between self and other, public duty and private obligation that limns the notion of I-ness...etc. etc'? That's how quotes usually look to me — like they were written by a literary theorist. Help! In any case, all of that is trivial. The main thing is, congratulations to Abraham, he's written a marvelous novel!"
"Review" by , "Cutting for Stone is a tremendous accomplishment. The writing is vivid and thrilling, and the story completely absorbing, with its pregnant Indian nun, demon-ridden British surgeon, Siamese twins orphaned and severed at birth, and narrative strands stretching across four continents. A tale this wild is perilous, but there is not a false step anywhere. Accomplished non-fiction writers do not necessarily make accomplished novelists, but with Cutting for Stone, Abraham Verghese has become both. This is a novel sure to receive a great amount of critical attention — and attention from readers, too. I feel lucky to have gotten to read it."
"Review" by , "Abraham Verghese has always written with grace, precision and feeling [but] he's topped himself with Cutting for Stone....A vastly entertaining and enlightening book."
"Review" by , "Cutting for Stone is nothing short of masterful —a riveting tale of love, medicine, and the complex dynamic of twin brothers. It is beautifully conceived and written. The settings are wonderfully pictorial. There is no doubt in my mind that Cutting for Stone will endure in the permanent literature of our time."
"Review" by , "With all the traits of a great 19th century novel...Cutting for Stone is destined for success."
"Review" by , "Contemporary literary comparisons are not easy with Verghese. At times he seems to be reaching for the magical realism of Gabriel Garci a Marquez, but with a more pragmatic bent."
"Review" by , "Verghese's writing infuses both surprise and humor as political and moral crises emerge at the hospital and within his characters."
"Review" by , "Verghese writes beautifully....[R]eaders will likely forgive him his coincidences for the pleasure of seeing everything work out, more or less, well."
"Review" by , "Abraham Verghese's first novel is a whopper, illuminating the magic and the tragedy of our lives, brimming with wisdom about the human condition. Such fun to read, too."
"Review" by , "Suffering, in medical and psychological senses, is the armature of much of the action and character in Cutting for Stone, but there is heroism as well."
"Review" by , "[A] staggering work, a beautifully crafted account of one man's birth, exile and return to his native Ethiopia."
"Review" by , "[A]bsorbing, exhilarating and exhausting....[Verghese's] intimate depiction of humanity makes your pulse race, your eyes tear, and your lungs exhale a satisfied sigh."
"Synopsis" by , A stunning debut novel from the author of My Own Country: an enthralling family saga of Africa and America, fathers and sons, doctors and patients, exile and home.
"Synopsis" by , An unforgettable, page-turning survival story recounted by Hector, a man trapped&#8212;perhaps fatally&#8212;inside a tanker truck during an illegal border crossing, telling of his hopes for rescue, the joys and trials of his life, and what has brought us all to this moment
"Synopsis" by ,
From the best-selling author of The Tiger and The Golden Spruce, this debut novel is a gripping survival story of an Oaxacan trapped, perhaps fatally, during a border crossing.
 
Hector is trapped. The water truck, sealed to hide its human cargo, has broken down. The coyotes have taken all the passengers money for a mechanic and have not returned. Those left behind have no choice but to wait.

Hector finds a name in his friend Cesars phone. AnniMac. A name with an American number. He must reach her, both for rescue and to pass along the message Cesar has come so far to deliver. But are his messages going through?

Over four days, as water and food run low, Hector tells how he came to this desperate place. His story takes us from Oaxaca &#8212; its rich culture, its rapid change &#8212; to the dangers of the border. It exposes the tangled ties between Mexico and El Norte &#8212; land of promise and opportunity, homewrecker and unreliable friend. And it reminds us of the power of storytelling and the power of hope, as Hector fights to ensure his message makes it out of the truck and into the world.

Both an outstanding suspense novel and an arresting window into the relationship between two great cultures, The Jaguars Children shows how deeply interconnected all of us, always, are.

"Synopsis" by , A sweeping, emotionally riveting first novel&#8212;an enthralling family saga of Africa and America, doctors and patients, exile and home.

Marion and Shiva Stone are twin brothers born of a secret union between a beautiful Indian nun and a brash British surgeon at a mission hospital in Addis Ababa. Orphaned by their mothers death in childbirth and their fathers disappearance, bound together by a preternatural connection and a shared fascination with medicine, the twins come of age as Ethiopia hovers on the brink of revolution. Yet it will be love, not politics&#8212;their passion for the same woman&#8212;that will tear them apart and force Marion, fresh out of medical school, to flee his homeland. He makes his way to America, finding refuge in his work as an intern at an underfunded, overcrowded New York City hospital. When the past catches up to him&#8212;nearly destroying him&#8212;Marion must entrust his life to the two men he thought he trusted least in the world: the surgeon father who abandoned him and the brother who betrayed him.

An unforgettable journey into one mans remarkable life, and an epic story about the power, intimacy, and curious beauty of the work of healing others.

spacer
spacer
  • back to top
Follow us on...




Powell's City of Books is an independent bookstore in Portland, Oregon, that fills a whole city block with more than a million new, used, and out of print books. Shop those shelves — plus literally millions more books, DVDs, and gifts — here at Powells.com.