Mourning a Breast, by Xi Xi

I was suitably intrigued by this book. It seems the kind of book that I’ve always wanted to be a reader of, to understand and to discuss with others in order to feel as though I’d reached some new imagined level of intellectualism. But, alas, I have never been a great reader of nonfiction. I aspire to be, I enjoy learning, but I often find myself overwhelmed or bored by facts and statistics, losing interest in the repetitive nature of essay collections. I have read numerous short story collections, and whilst I always come away enjoying a few, I never feel so moved by the overall collection. Fortunately, this collection surpassed all my expectations, and I found myself glued to its pages to the very end.

This work is unique in its format. I struggle to define it one way or another, as a collection of real-life inspired, interlinked short stories, as a collection of essays or even as a novel. It follows the author’s journey with breast cancer, from discovery, to diagnosis, to treatment, but along the way the author ruminates on art, - music, novels and translations - Hong Kong, femininity, and life and death itself. Each chapter (or story? Or essay?) follows a different theme, and is interspersed with notes from the author recommending you to skip to a certain section based on your interests. Although I chose to read the book chronologically, this was a refreshing, tailored approach to reading that I’m sure many readers will appreciate.

Although cancer is the work's central theme, and Xi Xi consistently finds ways to loop back her perspectives and musings on art, culture and life back to her condition, it certainly does not limit the book's scope. It takes what I would suggest is the best part of an essay collection, the author’s own interpretations of art and culture, and fuses it with the introspection of a memoir to produce a work that almost reads like a long, late night deep chat with a friend. I can’t help but feel privileged that I got to read such insights into the mind of an artist.

I had never known about the taboo around breast cancer in Chinese society, and this was such an eye-opening read for me. I loved the infusion of Chinese mythology, poetry and even medicine into the story, especially the reflections of the contrasts with the Western way. The author captures the intersection between following her cultural beliefs, and living in an ever-modernising city, where modern medicine and convenient city life threaten to pull her away from the roots of her tradition. Reading about the traditional Chinese approach to medicine and wellness was a heightened experience when read in China; as she recounted how she gets up every morning to perform tai chi, I sat in a park in Beijing watching the locals do the same, envious and in awe of the patience they embody in their slow and precise movements. Of course, much of Xi Xi’s musings on health is outdated now, having been written in the 90s. But even so, this work had a timeless quality to it. I frequently forgot it was written so long ago, and I felt a lot of what she spoke about is still relevant and pressing to this day.

There is certainly an existential undertone in this work, as would be expected given the central topic is breast cancer. Despite the seemingly negative connotations, such an undertone appeals to me greatly. I love discussions of life’s meaning, of the purpose that drives each of us to continue living each day. I found Xi Xi’s a refreshing approach to illness, as she has an innate ability to draw comfort and hope from a dire situation, and she frequently seems to highlight the perspective and enlightenment her illness has given her, how it has caused her to consider her body more:

‘The scene just now had been a practical lesson for medical students; I still hadn’t seen the actual doctor. I didn’t feel like I’d wasted my time, though; in fact, I was rather pleased. It turned out that disease could also be an opportunity to learn, a mechanism for creation. It was as though I had another body, as though I were detached, having become an observer of myself. I’d also come to practise getting to know myself.’ (p.104)

‘Undergoing surgery awakened an awareness that I did in fact have a body. For so long, I’d lived as though I had nothing but a mind, oblivious to everything else. I had no idea where the liver and gallbladder were located. Actually, didn’t I study biology in secondary school? How could I have been this ignorant about my own body?’ (p.268)

‘While I certainly wouldn’t praise disease, it was a disease that unexpectedly roused my other half from a deep sleep. I rediscovered the body I’d neglected and started learning to listen to its voice.’ (p.271)

By looking at death through the objective lens of a cancer patient, I drew comfort from its inevitability, as the driver of everyday life. Only by accepting and welcoming death can one begin to live every day to the fullest. Overall, I felt this book had a hopeful message:

'Life is always worth celebrating; being alive means there are always possibilities.' (p.283)

When it comes to the translation, I can only commend Jennifer Feeley's efforts. Often, I forgot that I was reading a translation (which I feel is very hard to achieve!) and she was so successful at creating a strong voice - I could almost feel Xi Xi coming out of the pages, her presence was in the room with me.

This is a book full of humour and wit, and intelligence radiated from the pages. Xi Xi is certainly a figure I much admire.

Reviewed by Emma Part