
A renowned neurosurgeon's raw confession of life and death decisions at the operating table. Winner of the 2015 PEN Ackerley Prize, "Do No Harm" reveals medicine's brutal truth: sometimes saving a brain means confronting your own humanity. Karl Ove Knausgard called it "true honesty in an unexpected place."
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The human brain - that three-pound universe of jelly that somehow contains our entire existence - seems almost offended by the neurosurgeon's intrusion. Henry Marsh hates cutting into it. Looking through his operating microscope, pushing a fine sucker through soft white matter, he finds it incomprehensible that this substance contains thought, emotion, memories, and dreams. Yet this is his daily reality: navigating the most complex object in the known universe with tools that, despite technological advances, remain alarmingly crude compared to the delicacy of the tissue they address. Every operation carries the weight of potential disaster. Neurosurgeons carry what the French surgeon Leriche called "the cemetery" - memories of their failures that haunt them throughout their careers. This burden weighs heavily during each procedure, particularly as retirement approaches. The anxiety never truly diminishes, regardless of experience. Each morning, neurosurgeons gather in darkened rooms examining giant brain scans with "sardonic amusement and Olympian detachment" - a necessary emotional distance when confronting daily stories of sudden catastrophe. But this detachment shatters in the operating room, where abstract images become living tissue and life-altering decisions must be made in moments. When facing a 32-year-old woman's small, accidentally discovered aneurysm, Marsh confronted a perfect dilemma: do nothing and she might eventually suffer a catastrophic hemorrhage, or operate with a 4-5% risk of causing immediate stroke. Despite his admission that he personally wouldn't choose surgery, she couldn't bear living with a "time bomb" in her head. The next morning in theater, looking through his microscope into her brain filled him with the same awe he felt thirty years earlier watching his first aneurysm operation. Despite all talk of teamwork, this moment feels like single combat - just the surgeon, climbing down the microscope into the patient's head, instruments becoming extensions of fingers. Following the pulsing middle cerebral artery, he soon finds the aneurysm glittering in the microscope's light.