P.J. O’Rourke faces mortality.

I have loved P.J. since my subscription to Rolling Stone back in the days of Terrence Trent D’Arby.  He is insightful, deprecating of self and others in a way that is hllarious and yet instructive.  Now, he’s been diagnosed with cancer, and discusses it in a very interesting way in this column

I looked death in the face. All right, I didn’t. I glimpsed him in a crowd. I’ve been diagnosed with cancer, of a very treatable kind. I’m told I have a 95% chance of survival. Come to think of it — as a drinking, smoking, saturated-fat hound — my chance of survival has been improved by cancer.

I still cursed God, as we all do when we get bad news and pain. Not even the most faith-impaired among us shouts: “Damn quantum mechanics!” “Damn organic chemistry!” “Damn chaos and coincidence!”

I’ve been on limited net access since Friday, so there might be some catching up the next few hours.  Consider this warning.

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