<?xml version='1.0' encoding='UTF-8'?><xml><records><record><source-app name="HighWire" version="7.x">Drupal-HighWire</source-app><ref-type name="Journal Article">17</ref-type><contributors><authors><author><style face="normal" font="default" size="100%">Jeffries, Dougal</style></author></authors><secondary-authors></secondary-authors></contributors><titles><title><style face="normal" font="default" size="100%">Anatole Broyard, Rosie and me</style></title><secondary-title><style face="normal" font="default" size="100%">British Journal of General Practice</style></secondary-title></titles><dates><year><style  face="normal" font="default" size="100%">2007</style></year><pub-dates><date><style  face="normal" font="default" size="100%">2007-10-01 00:00:00</style></date></pub-dates></dates><pages><style  face="normal" font="default" size="100%">850-850</style></pages><volume><style face="normal" font="default" size="100%">57</style></volume><issue><style face="normal" font="default" size="100%">543</style></issue><abstract><style  face="normal" font="default" size="100%">Anatole Broyard was a celebrated New York literary critic, who died from metastatic prostate cancer in 1992. He recorded his thoughts on his disease and experience in a collection of essays published under the title, ‘Intoxicated By My Illness’,1 which for some reason has just come to my notice. It is a gem of a book, and one essay in particular, ‘The Patient Examines the Doctor’, is so packed with observations—stimulating, provocative, mischievous and moving — that no doctor with a shred of humanity could fail to learn something from it.Broyard wants his doctor to be: a close reader of illness and a good critic of medicine; to study poetry; to imagine the aloneness of the critically ill; to resemble Oliver Sacks; not to love him, but ‘to …</style></abstract></record></records></xml>