The Diving Bell and the Butterfly: A Memoir of Life in Death

In December 1995, Jean-Dominique Bauby, the forty-three-year-old editor of French Elle, suffered a massive stroke that left him completely and permanently paralyzed, a victim of "locked-in syndrome." Where once he had been renowned for his gregariousness and wit, Bauby now found himself imprisoned i [...]
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In December 1995, Jean-Dominique Bauby, the forty-three-year-old editor of French Elle, suffered a massive stroke that left him completely and permanently paralyzed, a victim of "locked-in syndrome." Where once he had been renowned for his gregariousness and wit, Bauby now found himself imprisoned in an inert body, able to communicate only by blinking his left eye. The miracle is that in doing so he was able to compose this stunningly eloquent memoir, which was published two days before Bauby's death in 1996 and went on to become a number-one bestseller across Europe. The second miracle is that The Diving Bell and the Butterfly is less a record of affliction than it is a celebration of the liberating power of consciousness. In a voice that is by turns wistful and mischievous, angry and sardonic, Bauby tells us what it is like to spend a day with his children; to imagine lying in bed beside his lover; to conjure up the flavor of delectable meals even as he is fed by tube. Most of all, this triumphant book allows us to follow the flight of an indomitable spirit and to share its exultation at its own survival. Prologue Through the frayed curtain at my window, a wan glow announces the break of day. My heels hurt, my head weighs a ton, and something like a giant invisible cocoon holds my whole body prisoner. My room emerges slowly from the gloom. I linger over every item: photos of loved ones, my children's drawings, posters, the little tin cyclist sent by a friend the day before the Paris-Roubaix bike race, and the IV pole hanging over the bed where I have been confined these past six months, like a hermit crab dug into his rock. No need to wonder very long where I am, or to recall that the life I once knew was snuffed out Friday, the eighth of December, last year. Up until then I had never even heard of the brain stem. I've since learned that it is an essential component of our internal computer, the inseparable link between the brain