Two Answers to the Question, And What Does Writing Fiction Have to Do with Psychoanalysis?

In her 36th year, she discovered she had high cholesterol. This was to be the end of many delicious things: of cheese and cream and butter and chocolate, three-egg omelettes, Belgian waffles, Irish coffee, ice cream, croissants, and most kinds of cake. It was to be the beginning of the paring down of nearly every pleasure in her life, unless, of course, she faced the unpleasant truth squarely: She didn't much want to live her life as it was anyway. Having glanced sideways towards that truth, she could continue as she was and die the crowded death upon which she had already embarked, stuffed full with her fine job, nice house, good salary, decent husband, lovely daughter, and friends and family all around. Or, for the good of all, she could strip down the cravings of her own flesh still more until her wishes had become safely anorectic. This was what the doctor advised, what every magazine she paged through called for: “Test your health quotient.” “How long will you live?” “Follow our training program. Change your life today and feel better in just 3 months!” “Drink plenty of water, eat your vegetables, and stay away from fats. It's a matter of heart.” One article even promised that “The secret to a longer life may be lurking at your supermarket.” Helpful advice, or warning?

There was a third way perhaps, even, it seemed, a fourth or fifth. She knew these paths as the flicker of light beneath her eyelid as she dropped off to sleep, or the quiver of brightness before she awakened in the mornings, the rush of blood to her head as she hung from the doorway in her