Here's a gorgeous, gorgeous essay from The London Review of Books by Hilary Mantel. I wish Wolf Hall has been this full of amazing lines:
"Imagine you were creating all your experience by writing it into being, but were forced to write with the wrong hand"
"The iambic pentameter of the saline stand, the alexandrine of the blood drain, the epidural’s sweet sonnet form."
"Illness strips you back to an authentic self, but not one you need to meet."