I can’t think of many books where the reader feels so passionately on the side of the narrator. It’s not that George is dependably sunny (“I will admit it: some days I feel broken”) or that she courts pity. It’s not that she underplays the privations of her illness or that she overplays the therapeutic benefits of writing about it (“Sometimes, my writing feels like hopeless desperation: a panic attack on paper”). It’s not even her vulnerability. What’s seductive is her honesty as she lays herself open and works things out on the hoof, distilling her ideas, reappraising the past, living intensely and watching intently, until – the inevitable price – she’s laid low again with chronic fatigue.