The Emperor of All Maladies: A Biography of Cancer疾病之王：癌癥傳記 英文原版 [平裝] pdf epub mobi txt 電子書 下載 2025

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☆☆☆☆☆

Siddhartha Mukherjee（悉達多·穆剋吉） 著

圖書標籤:

• Cancer
• Medical History
• Biography
• Science
• Medicine
• Pulitzer Prize
• Sidney Kimmel Award
• Health
• Disease
• Non-fiction

齣版社： Scribner

ISBN：9781439170915

商品編碼：19048556

包裝：平裝

齣版時間：2008-01-08

用紙：膠版紙

頁數：608

正文語種：英文

商品尺寸：15.49x3.56x23.37cm

編輯推薦

在疾病裏麵，癌癥是個脾氣古怪、難以捉摸的敵手。它冷酷無情，全球每年有800萬人死於癌癥；它類型眾多，人體大部分組織器官都有發生癌癥的可能。因此，想為治療難度極高、疾病機理復雜、研究數量最多的癌癥，寫一本傳記，是個有點“狂妄”的想法。
美國哥倫比亞大學的癌癥醫生和研究者悉達多·穆吉剋（Siddhartha Mukherjee）做到瞭，他既梳理瞭古埃及以降的癌癥曆史，又重點描述上世紀中期以來的腫瘤三大治療手段（放療、化療、手術）。

內容簡介

The Emperor of All Maladies is a magnificent, profoundly humane "biography" of cancer—from its first documented appearances thousands of years ago through the epic battles in the twentieth century to cure, control, and conquer it to a radical new understanding of its essence. Physician, researcher, and award-winning science writer, Siddhartha Mukherjee examines cancer with a cellular biologist's precision, a historian's perspective, and a biographer's passion. The result is an astonishingly lucid and eloquent chronicle of a disease humans have lived with—and perished from—for more than five thousand years.

The story of cancer is a story of human ingenuity, resilience, and perseverance, but also of hubris, paternalism, and misperception. Mukherjee recounts centuries of discoveries, setbacks, victories, and deaths, told through the eyes of his predecessors and peers, training their wits against an infinitely resourceful adversary that, just three decades ago, was thought to be easily vanquished in an all-out "war against cancer." The book reads like a literary thriller with cancer as the protagonist.

From the Persian Queen Atossa, whose Greek slave may have cut off her diseased breast, to the nineteenth-century recipients of primitive radiation and chemotherapy to Mukherjee's own leukemia patient, Carla, The Emperor of All Maladies is about the people who have soldiered through fiercely demanding regimens in order to survive—and to increase our understanding of this iconic disease.

Riveting, urgent, and surprising, The Emperor of All Maladies provides a fascinating glimpse into the future of cancer treatments. It is an illuminating book that provides hope and clarity to those seeking to demystify cancer.

與一般的科普作品相比，這本癌癥的傳記頗有一股文士之氣。清晰易懂自不用說，在穆剋吉的筆下，癌癥不止是一種醫學現象，也不止是一個亟待攻剋的科學難題，而是與我們有著剪不斷理還亂糾纏的另一個自己——如果說人類的進化是一齣戲，那麼地球就是大場景，故事的主角自然是人類，而最終Boss，就是人類的私生子：癌癥。
早先的人類因各種疾病而死，平均壽命也不過四、五十歲。工業革命以後，生活條件好瞭，科學技術，尤其是醫藥科學得到長足發展，人類的壽命大大提高，而這恰恰給瞭細胞以變異的機會。在美國這樣的發達國傢，癌癥是僅次於心髒病的第二大健康殺手——而在比較貧睏和相對原始的地區，大多數人還沒有活到細胞能夠發生變異就病死瞭，癌癥與痢疾相比根本算不瞭什麼，那裏的人還在為飲用水擔心。
所以說，癌癥基本上由人類自己培育而成，到頭來卻奈之不得的對手。穆剋吉寫道：“人類想長生不死，於是癌細胞繼承瞭我們的執著。”
人類與癌癥的鬥爭是血腥的，也是不成功的。這是一場永遠贏不瞭的戰役：找得到病竈，卻不能釜底抽薪。慕剋吉指齣，人類擺脫不瞭癌癥，因為人類不能阻止細胞衰亡、不能抑製細胞自愈、也不能消滅細胞分裂。
身為腫瘤學傢，現實與科學不允許他放手描繪一個幸福的未來。但穆剋吉還是給齣瞭非常保守的展望：如果我們轉變目標，不求“消滅”癌癥，但求與之“和平共處”，未來還是很有希望的。盡量延長癌癥患者的壽命，殺死癌細胞將不再是癌癥治療的關鍵，患者的正常細胞也可以免於放射治療的侵害，讓癌細胞與正常細胞處於動態平衡。

作者簡介

Siddhartha Mukherjee is a cancer physician and researcher. His book The Emperor of All Maladies: A Biography of Cancer won the 2011 Pulitzer Prize in general non-fiction. Mukherjee is an assistant professor of medicine at Columbia University and a staff cancer physician at Columbia University Medical Center. A Rhodes scholar, he graduated from Stanford University, University of Oxford, Harvard Medical School. He has published articles in Nature, The New England Journal of Medicine, The New York Times, and The New Republic. He lives in New York with his wife and daughters.

精彩書評

"…Mukherjee has undertaken one of the most extraordinary stories in medicine: a history of cancer…He frames it as a biography, "an attempt to enter the mind of this immortal illness, to understand its personality, to demystify its behavior." It is an epic story that he seems compelled to tell, the way a passionate young priest might attempt a biography of Satan."
--The New York Times Book Review - Jonathan Weiner

"This volume should earn Mukherjee a rightful place alongside Carl Sagan, Stephen Jay Gould, and Stephen Hawking in the pantheon of our epoch's great explicators."
--Boston Globe

目錄

Author's Note xiii

Prologue

Part 1 "Of blacke cholor, without boyling"

Part 2 An Impatient War

Part 3 "Will you turn me out if I can't get better?"

Part 4 Prevention is the Cure

Part 5 "A Distorted Version of Our Normal Selves"

Part 6 The Fruits of Long Endeavors

Atossa's War

Acknowledgments

Notes

Glossary

Selected Bibliography

Photograph Credits

Index

精彩書摘

Prologue

Diseases desperate grown

By desperate appliance are relieved,

Or not at all.

—William Shakespeare,
Hamlet

Cancer begins and ends with people. In the midst of scientific abstraction, it is sometimes possible to forget this one basic fact. . . . Doctors treat diseases, but they also treat people, and this precondition of their professional existence sometimes pulls them in two directions at once.

—June Goodfield

On the morning of May 19, 2004, Carla Reed, a thirty-year-old kindergarten teacher from Ipswich, Massachusetts, a mother of three young children, woke up in bed with a headache. “Not just any headache,” she would recall later, “but a sort of numbness in my head. The kind of numbness that instantly tells you that something is terribly wrong.”

Something had been terribly wrong for nearly a month. Late in April, Carla had discovered a few bruises on her back. They had suddenly appeared one morning, like strange stigmata, then grown and vanished over the next month, leaving large map-shaped marks on her back. Almost indiscernibly, her gums had begun to turn white. By early May, Carla, a vivacious, energetic woman accustomed to spending hours in the classroom chasing down five- and six-year-olds, could barely walk up a flight of stairs. Some mornings, exhausted and unable to stand up, she crawled down the hallways of her house on all fours to get from one room to another. She slept fitfully for twelve or fourteen hours a day, then woke up feeling so overwhelmingly tired that she needed to haul herself back to the couch again to sleep.

Carla and her husband saw a general physician and a nurse twice during those four weeks, but she returned each time with no tests and without a diagnosis. Ghostly pains appeared and disappeared in her bones. The doctor fumbled about for some explanation. Perhaps it was a migraine, she suggested, and asked Carla to try some aspirin. The aspirin simply worsened the bleeding in Carla’s white gums.

Outgoing, gregarious, and ebullient, Carla was more puzzled than worried about her waxing and waning illness. She had never been seriously ill in her life. The hospital was an abstract place for her; she had never met or consulted a medical specialist, let alone an oncologist. She imagined and concocted various causes to explain her symptoms—overwork, depression, dyspepsia, neuroses, insomnia. But in the end, something visceral arose inside her—a seventh sense—that told Carla something acute and catastrophic was brewing within her body.

On the afternoon of May 19, Carla dropped her three children with a neighbor and drove herself back to the clinic, demanding to have some blood tests. Her doctor ordered a routine test to check her blood counts. As the technician drew a tube of blood from her vein, he looked closely at the blood’s color, obviously intrigued. Watery, pale, and dilute, the liquid that welled out of Carla’s veins hardly resembled blood.

Carla waited the rest of the day without any news. At a fish market the next morning, she received a call.

"We need to draw some blood again," the nurse from the clinic said.

"When should I come?" Carla asked, planning her hectic day. She remembers looking up at the clock on the wall. A half-pound steak of salmon was warming in her shopping basket, threatening to spoil if she left it out too long.

In the end, commonplace particulars make up Carla’s memories of illness: the clock, the car pool, the children, a tube of pale blood, a missed shower, the fish in the sun, the tightening tone of a voice on the phone. Carla cannot recall much of what the nurse said, only a general sense of urgency. “Come now,” she thinks the nurse said. “Come now.”

I heard about Carla’s case at seven o’clock on the morning of May 21, on a train speeding between Kendall Square and Charles Street in Boston. The sentence that flickered on my beeper had the staccato and deadpan force of a true medical emergency: Carla Reed/New patient with leukemia/14^thFloor/Please see as soon as you arrive. As the train shot out of a long, dark tunnel, the glass towers of the Massachusetts General Hospital suddenly loomed into view, and I could see the windows of the fourteenth floor rooms.

Carla, I guessed, was sitting in one of those rooms by herself, terrifyingly alone. Outside the room, a buzz of frantic activity had probably begun. Tubes of blood were shuttling between the ward and the laboratories on the second floor. Nurses were moving about with specimens, interns collecting data for morning reports, alarms beeping, pages being sent out. Somewhere in the depths of the hospital, a microscope was flickering on, with the cells in Carla’s blood coming into focus under its lens.

I can feel relatively certain about all of this because the arrival of a patient with acute leukemia still sends a shiver down the hospital’s spine—all the way from the cancer wards on its upper floors to the clinical laboratories buried deep in the basement. Leukemia is cancer of the white blood cells—cancer in one of its most explosive, violent incarnations. As one nurse on the wards often liked to remind her patients, with this disease “even a paper cut is an emergency.”

For an oncologist in training, too, leukemia represents a special incarnation of cancer. Its pace, its acuity, its breathtaking, inexorable arc of growth forces rapid, often drastic decisions; it is terrifying to experience, terrifying to observe, and terrifying to treat. The body invaded by leukemia is pushed to its brittle physiological limit—every system, heart, lung, blood, working at the knife-edge of its performance. The nurses filled me in on the gaps in the story. Blood tests performed by Carla’s doctor had revealed that her red cell count was critically low, less than a third of normal. Instead of normal white cells, her blood was packed with millions of large, malignant white cells—blasts, in the vocabulary of cancer. Her doctor, having finally stumbled upon the real diagnosis, had sent her to the Massachusetts General Hospital.

In the long, bare hall outside Carla’s room, in the antiseptic gleam of the floor just mopped with diluted bleach, I ran through the list of tests that would be needed on her blood and mentally rehearsed the conversation I would have with her. There was, I noted ruefully, something rehearsed and robotic even about my sympathy. This was the tenth month of my "fellowship" in oncology—a two-year immersive medical program to train cancer specialists—and I felt as if I had gravitated to my lowest point. In those ten indescribably poignant and difficult months, dozens of patients in my care had died. I felt I was slowly becoming inured to the deaths and the desolation—vaccinated against the constant emotional brunt.

There were seven such cancer fellows at this hospital. On paper, we seemed like a formidable force: graduates of five medical schools and four teaching hospitals, sixty-six years of medical and scientific training, and twelve postgraduate degrees among us. But none of those years or degrees could possibly have prepared us for this training program. Medical school, internship, and residency had been physically and emotionally grueling, but the first months of the fellowship flicked away those memories as if all of that had been child’s play, the kindergarten of medical training.

Cancer was an all-consuming presence in our lives. It invaded our imaginations; it occupied our memories; it infiltrated every conversation, every thought. And if we, as physicians, found ourselves immersed in cancer, then our patients found their lives virtually obliterated by the disease. In Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn’s novelCancer Ward, Pavel Nikolayevich Rusanov, a youthful Russian in his midforties, discovers that he has a tumor in his neck and is immediately whisked away into a cancer ward in some nameless hospital in the frigid north. The diagnosis of cancer—not the disease, but the mere stigma of its presence—becomes a death sentence for Rusanov. The illness strips him of his identity. It dresses him in a patient’s smock (a tragicomically cruel costume, no less blighting than a prisoner’s jumpsuit) and assumes absolute control of his actions. To be diagnosed with cancer, Rusanov discovers, is to enter a borderless medical gulag, a state even more invasive and paralyzing than the one that he has left behind. (Solzhenitsyn may have intended his absurdly totalitarian cancer hospital to parallel the absurdly totalitarian state outside it, yet when I once asked a woman with invasive cervical cancer about the parallel, she said sardonically, “Unfortunately, I did not need any metaphors to read the book. The cancer ward was my confining state, my prison.”)

As a doctor learning to tend cancer patients, I had only a partial glimpse of this confinement. But even skirting its periphery, I could still feel its power—the dense, insistent gravitational tug that pulls everything and everyone into the orbit of cancer. A colleague, freshly out of his fellowship, pulled me aside on my first week to offer some advice. “It’s called an immersive training program,” he said, lowering his voice. “But by immersive, they really mean drowning. Don’t let it work its way into everything you do. Have a life outside the hospital. You’ll need it, or you’ll get swallowed.”

But it was impossible not to be swallowed. In the parking lot of the hospital, a chilly, concrete box lit by neon floodlights, I spent the end of every evening after rounds in stunned incoherence, the car radio crackling vacantly in the background, as I compulsively tried to reconstruct the events of the day. The stories of my patients consumed me, and the decisions that I made haunted me.

前言/序言

評分☆☆☆☆☆

　　（2）放棄可開可不開的會議。在決定召開一個會議之前，首先要明確會議是否必須舉行，還是可以通過其他方式進行溝通。

評分☆☆☆☆☆

第一次寫差評。

評分☆☆☆☆☆

　　①會議後要總結，提煉結論。主持人在會後總結問題的討論結果，重申有關決議，明確責任人和完成時間。

評分☆☆☆☆☆

沒想到jd的外文原版書也這麼給力，很快就到瞭

評分☆☆☆☆☆

非常值得一看的書，看過電子版後覺得好看纔買來實體書收藏的，作者把癌癥的曆史介紹的不錯

評分☆☆☆☆☆

病，改變瞭世界，也成就瞭世界。萬病之王，有許多動人的故事。

評分☆☆☆☆☆

　　①會議後要總結，提煉結論。主持人在會後總結問題的討論結果，重申有關決議，明確責任人和完成時間。

評分☆☆☆☆☆

評分☆☆☆☆☆

不錯！