Through little fault of his own, Dr. Kalanithi struggles to rise above his illness and offer any translatable insights into the processes of death and dying. The book is very much set up as offering some conclusion, some meaning, to life -- whether in work, or in family, or in self-discovery -- but fails to stick the landing. It is interesting as a piece showing the unmoored thoughts and feelings of a dying man, but the narration that he hopes to achieve is unclear, and he struggles to offer a true conclusion, or even declare that none exists. He continues to make the same mistakes he identifies as pitfalls in the rat race of life (for example, toiling in residency to graduation even knowing that he will never truly be an attending, spending time away from family, striving for accolades separated from the joy of work itself). The best part of the book, in my opinion, was the afterword by the author's wife discussing his death, reflecting on his desires and his relationship with his family from a view not encumbered by the illness itself. The very existence of this book is intrinsically sad, and I hope that writing it gave Dr. Kalanithi some peace and closure, but it unfortunately fails to do the same for the reader.