Author Jean-Dominique Bauby died just two days after the publication of his book THE DIVING BELL AND THE BUTTERFLY. The reader is told this up front to erase any thoughts of a happy ending and to force the reader to appreciate the amazing achievements inherent in every carefully chosen word. Success is not calibrated by what we achieve or what we gain materially but by how much we retain of who we are when everything else is taken away. The author suffered a massive stroke that left his mind intact but took away most of his body. That body, the heavy leaden and lifeless diving bell, and his mind the beautiful butterfly in flight--one trapped inside the other and inseparable. Writing anything is difficult. Facing a blank white sheet is daunting. Imagine if your entire world was that blank sheet and you had to fill it every day with your own wit and imagination. The author's restless mind is writing all the time whether conjuring up the vivid details of meals he can no longer enjoy or recalling opportunities missed because he took so much of life for granted. Despite the awkward dictation tool of only being able to use one blinking eye, the swift beauty of his prose caresses the page like a gentle stream we know will dwindle to nothing all too soon. As I drifted with his thoughts, I remembered other books that gave me a similar feeling of beauty and isolation...John Baley's ELEGY FOR IRIS, Dalton Trumbo's JOHNNY GOT HIS GUN, Kate Chopin's THE AWAKENING, Charlotte Perkins-Gilman's THE YELLOW WALLPAPER, and Margaret Atwood's SURFACING. All worth your time.