It is no longer possible to argue with Barbara Spinelli, but reporting on cancer is also a civic duty

Is discussing one’s own cancer or that of loved ones a form of vanity or weakness, particularly among women? Is it a desire to remain in the limelight at all costs, to expose the weaknesses and ugliness of the illness rather than withdrawing with dignity into treatment, putting on a show just as Vittorio Sgarbi did when he had his photograph taken on the toilet with his trousers down? This is what Barbara Spinelli’s words, quoted yesterday in Marco Travaglio’s obituary in *Il Fatto*, seem to suggest: “My medical condition hasn’t changed; in fact, it’s getting worse. You’ll have realised long ago, I think, that I’m radically opposed to so-called ‘outing’ – that widespread anxiety, particularly amongst women, to share and publicise their own, supposedly fascinating, experience.”

The tone, needless to say, is ironic; there’s even a blunder (’outing’ instead of ’coming out’), and it recalls the lessons I grew up with. Never complain, never discuss illnesses. These topics of conversation were attributed to old, spinster aunts from whom my parents and grandparents would flee at the speed of light. According to Paolo Mieli, who quoted Spinelli’s words, one might read between the lines a criticism of Michela Murgia, who, by contrast, dramatised illness and death. The fact remains that, going back to the distant past, as a pre-teen I read all the memoirs my grandfather put into my hands: Le scarpe al sole by Paolo Monelli, Il sergente nella neve by Mario Rigoni Stern, Le centomila gavette di ghiaccio by Giulio Bedeschi, and even Il reticolato, an unpublished illustrated book written by my uncle Silla Parapini, which recounted two years of captivity alongside Giovannino Guareschi in six concentration camps across Poland and Germany. This suggests that while women’s illnesses—even the most terrible ones—were considered tedious and off-putting, men recounted the hardships of war and captivity, and we read about them avidly, suffering along with them for what they had endured, certain that there would be no more conflicts. And yet, now that wars are discussed every day and are bearing down on our borders—while we hope they will stop there, at the borders—the new wave of memoirs has shifted to focus on cancer. It even seems somewhat sexist to attribute this trend predominantly to women. Christopher Hitchens left us a ruthless, first-hand account of his oesophageal cancer (the articles he wrote for Vanity Fair were later collected in the book Mortality). Oliver Sacks wrote moving essays in the New York Times about his terminal ocular melanoma.

In "Un altro giro di giostra", Tiziano Terzani recounts the illness from which he was dying as an opportunity to reflect on the meaning of life, whilst Mattia Torre has described his experience as a cancer patient in the unmissable "La linea verticale", which was later adapted into a television series. Pierluigi Battista wrote La fine del giorno: un diario about his wife’s cancer; a book I have read and reread, not least because it is full of useful advice, including bibliographical recommendations. Unfortunately, we can no longer engage in debate with Barbara Spinelli, but cancer affects us all; it strikes everyone, and those who can write about it create literature whilst also fulfilling a civic duty, because they help the poor souls caught up in it to find their bearings at a time of utter bewilderment. Do women discuss it more? Perhaps because they care more about their hair than about a toned stomach, and going bald, going to work or taking the children to school wearing a turban or a wig is like having cancer’s calling card stamped on your head. And at that point, you might as well talk about it rather than pretend nothing’s wrong, given that nothing is wrong.