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The wounded surgeon plies the steel
That questions the distempered part;
Beneath the bleeding hands we feel
The sharp compassion of the healer’s art
Resolving the enigma of the fever chart.
—T.S. Eliot, “East Coker”
So much of the misery we face, from sickness to death, are matters we cannot remedy, much less escape. But it does not follow that they are without meaning as well. Even the dead end we mistakenly drive…