There’s an inner conflict that takes place when reading this book - the compulsion to keep reading versus the instinct to recoil at all the grisly details. It’s a semi-fictionalised memoir by a surgeon, relativly short, and written in such a clean, spare (surgical?) style that you can’t help but believe wholly in its authenticity. The balance of humanity and compassion to resolute clear-headedness is pitch-perfect. When dealing with tragedy, misery and waste, Weston is neither sentimental nor cold. Triumph is always muted and there is disdain (without self-righteousness) for pompousity and needless blundering. Eye-opening stuff.
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