1. Introduction: Why Narrative Medicine Matters Now
In an era defined by algorithmic diagnostics, electronic health records, and the quantification of care, medicine faces a paradox: as its technical capacity has expanded to unprecedented heights, the therapeutic relationship — the conversation between patient and clinician — has frequently contracted. Patients report feeling unheard. Physicians report feeling burned out. Diagnostic errors persist not from lack of data but from failures of attention. Against this backdrop, narrative medicine has emerged not as a romantic retreat from science but as a rigorous, evidence-informed discipline that restores the human story to its proper place at the centre of clinical practice.
The term “narrative medicine” names a discipline that — in the formulation of its chief architect, Rita Charon — is “medicine practised with narrative competence.” That competence entails the ability to recognise, absorb, interpret, and be moved by the stories patients tell of their illnesses; to understand illness as an event in someone’s life trajectory; and to reflect, with critical precision, on the stories clinicians themselves construct. Far from being optional ornamentation on a scientific core, narrative competence turns out to be implicated in the accuracy of diagnosis, the depth of empathy, and the resilience of practitioners themselves.
This interpretive reading of the body is not a modern invention. Long before clinical semiotics was formalised, literature had already practised it: Dante’s Inferno, for instance, reads the damned as a precise catalogue of disease, transforming the poet’s gaze into something remarkably close to a clinician’s.
This post offers a comprehensive introduction to narrative medicine clinical practice for clinicians, researchers, and medical educators with an interest in the intersections of data, science, and the human dimension of healthcare. We move from historical origins through theoretical foundations, examine the evidence base, read canonical literary and artistic works through a narrative medicine lens, distinguish the field from the broader territory of medical humanities, and close with practical tools clinicians can adopt immediately.
2. Origins: Rita Charon and the Columbia Programme
The story of narrative medicine as a formal discipline begins with an internist and literary scholar named Rita Charon. Charon arrived at Columbia University’s College of Physicians and Surgeons in the 1990s carrying two doctoral degrees — one in medicine, one in English literature — and a persistent intuition that something in the medical encounter was being systematically missed. Her concern was not sentimental: it was epistemological. She believed that the modes of attention and interpretation trained by literary study were directly transferable to clinical encounters, and that physicians who lacked those modes were not merely less humane but less accurate.
In 2000, Charon published a landmark paper in JAMA titled “Narrative Medicine: A Model for Empathy, Reflection, Profession, and Trust,” articulating for the first time a coherent programme. Three years later she founded the Programme in Narrative Medicine at Columbia, the first of its kind. The programme trained physicians, nurses, social workers, and chaplains in close reading, reflective writing, and the analysis of narrative structure. It drew its curriculum from literary theory — particularly from the work of Mikhail Bakhtin on dialogism and from narratologists such as Gérard Genette — and from medical ethics and philosophy.
What distinguished Charon’s project from earlier work in literature and medicine (which had been practised informally for decades) was its insistence on rigour. Narrative medicine was not bibliotherapy — the therapeutic use of reading. It was a discipline with defined methods, teachable skills, and, crucially, outcomes that could be measured. The programme has since trained hundreds of healthcare professionals and spawned postgraduate certificates, master’s degrees, and doctoral programmes at Columbia and at affiliated institutions worldwide.
The intellectual genealogy of the field is worth tracing briefly. Charon drew on Arthur Kleinman’s distinction between disease (the biological pathology) and illness (the patient’s experienced suffering), a distinction Kleinman elaborated in The Illness Narratives (1988). She drew on Eric Cassell’s The Nature of Suffering (1991), which argued that medicine’s failure to engage with personhood — with biography, with meaning — caused suffering beyond the biological. And she drew on phenomenological philosophy, particularly Edmund Husserl and Maurice Merleau-Ponty, which insisted that bodily experience was the irreducible foundation of human knowledge. Together, these sources supported the central claim: that the patient’s narrative is not background information but primary clinical data.
3. The Four Core Elements: Attention, Representation, Affiliation, Action
Charon and her colleagues articulate narrative medicine around four cardinal concepts: attention, representation, affiliation, and action. These are not sequential steps but mutually reinforcing capacities, each of which can be cultivated through practice.
Attention
Attention is the disciplined act of receiving — of opening oneself to the full complexity of what a patient presents. In literary close reading, attention means noticing what a text does formally: its rhythm, its silences, its metaphors, its shifts in tense or person. In the clinical encounter, it means noticing not just the content of what a patient says but the form in which they say it: the hesitation before naming a symptom, the passive construction used when describing a traumatic event, the moment when the patient’s gaze drops away. Attention in this sense is active and trained, not passive and instinctive. It requires the clinician to suspend premature closure — the drive to pattern-match and categorise — and to remain, for longer than is comfortable, in a state of receptive uncertainty.
Representation
Representation is the act of making what has been attended to into an external form — a written note, a narrative account, a parallel chart (discussed below). For Charon, the act of writing is not merely documentation but transformation: in writing about a patient encounter, the clinician moves from raw perception to structured meaning, and in doing so discovers what they noticed and what they missed, what moved them and what they avoided. Representation is where the work of close reading rejoins the work of clinical documentation, and where the parallel chart becomes a tool of both self-knowledge and quality improvement.
Affiliation
Affiliation is the outcome of sustained attention and honest representation: a genuine sense of connection with the patient, grounded not in sentimentality but in the recognition that the patient’s suffering is particular, not generic. In Charon’s formulation, affiliation is the emotional and ethical correlate of narrative competence. It is what prevents the clinician from treating the patient as a case and insists on treating them as a person. Crucially, affiliation is not the same as identification: the clinician does not need to have had the same experience as the patient to be affiliated with them. What is required is the imaginative capacity to understand — not fully, but seriously — a life that is not one’s own.
Action
Action is the translation of narrative competence into changed clinical behaviour: a different question asked, a diagnosis reconsidered, a conversation opened that had been avoided, a care plan altered in response to what the patient has actually said rather than what the clinician expected to hear. Action is the test of narrative medicine’s claim to clinical utility. If close reading and reflective writing produce only private insight, they remain valuable but limited. Their full potential is realised when they alter the clinician’s behaviour in ways that improve the quality of care.
4. The Evidence Base: Empathy, Burnout, and Diagnostic Accuracy
Sceptics sometimes characterise narrative medicine as an appealing idea in search of evidence. The evidence, while still accumulating, is more substantial than critics acknowledge.
On empathy, a 2001 study by Halpern demonstrated that emotional attunement — closely related to narrative competence — was associated with improved patient outcomes across multiple measures. More directly, a 2011 randomised controlled trial by Winkel and colleagues, published in Patient Education and Counseling, found that narrative medicine training significantly improved empathy scores in medical students compared to controls, with effects sustained at six-month follow-up. DasGupta and Charon’s own work has consistently shown improvements in perspective-taking and tolerance of ambiguity following narrative medicine seminars.
On clinician burnout, the evidence is suggestive and important. Burnout in medicine is partly a consequence of the erosion of meaning — the sense that clinical work has been reduced to procedure and throughput. Narrative medicine addresses this directly by restoring the clinician’s sense of the meaning of their work. Studies at Columbia and at Thomas Jefferson University have shown that narrative medicine workshops reduce emotional exhaustion and increase personal accomplishment scores on the Maslach Burnout Inventory. A 2019 systematic review by Milota, van Thiel, and van Delden, published in Medical Teacher, found consistent positive effects on reflective capacity and on measures of professional identity across diverse narrative medicine curricula.
On diagnostic accuracy, the connection is more inferential but theoretically compelling. Jerome Groopman’s How Doctors Think (2007) — discussed in detail below — documents how cognitive biases, including premature closure and anchoring, account for a substantial proportion of diagnostic errors. Narrative competence addresses these biases directly: by training clinicians to maintain attention to disconfirming detail and to remain open to revision, it targets the cognitive habits that make errors most likely. Research by Smith and colleagues has shown that physicians who score higher on measures of narrative competence are more likely to elicit complete patient histories and to identify psychosocial factors relevant to diagnosis.
These findings should be interpreted carefully: narrative medicine research faces the general challenges of educational intervention studies, including difficulty blinding, variability in implementation, and the problem of measuring outcomes that unfold over years rather than weeks. But the direction of evidence consistently supports the field’s core claims, and the methodological maturity of the literature has grown considerably since the early 2000s.
5. Narrative Medicine Through Literary and Artistic Works
Narrative medicine gains much of its intellectual depth from sustained engagement with literary and artistic works that explore illness, suffering, and the medical encounter. Six works in particular illuminate different dimensions of narrative medicine clinical practice and have become central to its pedagogical canon.
Leo Tolstoy, The Death of Ivan Ilyich (1886)
Tolstoy’s novella remains the most powerful literary exploration of what Charon calls the “narrative situation of illness.” Ivan Ilyich Golovin, a successful judge, develops an illness that his physicians never diagnose with confidence and that none of his colleagues or family members are able to acknowledge honestly. The novella’s central indictment is not of medicine’s technical failures but of its narrative ones: the physicians who attend Ivan Ilyich are interested in the disease, not the man; they deliver verdicts in the language of probability and prognosis while remaining utterly silent on the questions that actually consume their patient — why is this happening to me, and what does it mean?
The key passage for narrative medicine is Ivan Ilyich’s recognition that “what he longed for most was to be pitied and wept over as a sick child is caressed and comforted.” The longing is not for cure but for witness — for the acknowledgement that his suffering is real and that it matters to someone. Gerasim, the peasant servant who alone is straightforward with Ivan Ilyich, represents the therapeutic power of honest attention. He does not diagnose or treat; he simply holds the dying man’s legs through the night because it eases the pain. In doing so he performs, intuitively, what narrative medicine formalises as affiliation. Tolstoy’s novella stands as a reminder that technical excellence and narrative failure are not mutually exclusive — and that the second can hollow out the first.
This indictment takes different forms across literary traditions. Where Tolstoy’s physicians fail through scientific detachment, Proust’s celebrated Dr Cottard fails through vanity: a socially ambitious, at times absurd figure whose diagnostic reputation masks a striking poverty of human attention — a portrait explored elsewhere on this site.”
Virginia Woolf, On Being Ill (1926)
Woolf’s essay is a masterpiece of illness phenomenology, written from the inside. Her central provocation is a question: why, given that illness is among the most universal of human experiences, has it generated so little literature? “Considering how common illness is, how tremendous the spiritual change that it brings, how astonishing, when the lights of health go down, the undiscovered countries that are then disclosed, what wastes and deserts of the soul a slight attack of influenza brings to view” — why has this territory been left unmapped?
For narrative medicine, Woolf’s essay performs two related functions. First, it gives language to experiences that patients typically lack words for: the altered temporality of illness, the estrangement from the healthy body, the strange clarity of perception that fever sometimes brings. Second, it implicitly diagnoses the physician’s epistemological problem: if the clinician has not attended to the literature of illness, they have no map for the territory their patients inhabit. Woolf’s essay is, in this sense, a corrective to professional habituation — a reminder that illness is not a deviation from the norm of health but a distinct, complex country with its own geography, and that the physician who has never ventured into that country, even through the proxy of literature, is navigating it blind.
Franz Kafka, The Metamorphosis (1915)
Gregor Samsa’s transformation into a giant insect is one of literature’s most persistent metaphors for the experience of chronic illness. What Kafka renders with extraordinary precision is not the biology of transformation but its social consequences: the withdrawal of recognition, the restructuring of family relationships around the sick member’s incapacity, the gradual erosion of the ill person’s subjectivity in the eyes of those around them. Gregor’s family members pass through stages — shock, accommodation, resentment, guilt — that closely parallel the documented emotional trajectories of families confronting chronic or terminal illness.
For clinical practice, The Metamorphosis is a study in what Arthur Frank has called the failure of the “restitution narrative”: when cure is not available, the social structures that organise illness break down, and both patient and family are left in a narrative void. The story is a reminder that the patient’s illness story is always also a family story — and that the clinician who attends only to the individual patient misses the broader systemic context in which that patient’s suffering unfolds. Reading Kafka carefully can help clinicians recognise the systemic dimensions of their patients’ crises that a disease-centred history will never surface.
The same logic of somatised suffering runs through contemporary fiction as well: Murakami’s bodies, where insomnia, anorexia and the amputated shadow stand in for wounds that never reach clinical language.
Anton Chekhov: The Physician-Writer
Chekhov occupies a unique position in the narrative medicine canon because he wrote from both sides of the consultation room. Trained as a physician and practising throughout his adult life — dying of tuberculosis at forty-four — Chekhov brought to his fiction a clinical precision that was inseparable from his literary technique. His stories — “Ward No. 6,” “A Boring Story,” “The Bishop,” among many others — are studies in observation and restraint, in what he famously described as writing “without commentary.”
For narrative medicine, Chekhov’s method is itself an object of instruction. His refusal to judge, his insistence on showing rather than telling, his attention to the gap between what characters say and what they feel — these are literary virtues that translate directly into clinical ones. “Ward No. 6” in particular, with its portrayal of a physician who gradually identifies with his patient to the point of becoming one himself, raises the problem of affiliation taken to pathological extremes. The clinician’s challenge is to be moved without being overwhelmed; to be present without losing the reflective distance necessary for good judgment. Chekhov dramatises this challenge with a clarity that no clinical textbook has matched. His dual identity — as physician and as writer — also makes him the emblematic figure for the kind of integrative attention that narrative medicine seeks to cultivate.
Oliver Sacks: The Neurological Case History as Literature
Oliver Sacks represents a different kind of intervention: the physician who borrows the tools of literary narrative to transform the case history into a form of humanistic inquiry. In The Man Who Mistook His Wife for a Hat (1985), Awakenings (1973), and his later autobiographical work, Sacks consistently positioned the patient not as a bundle of symptoms but as a person navigating the meaning of a profoundly altered existence.
Sacks was explicit about his method. He described himself as a “clinical neurologist and romantic naturalist,” and his prose style — dense with literary and cultural allusion, attentive to the phenomenology of experience, deliberately unhurried — was a formal argument for a different kind of medical attention. For narrative medicine, Sacks’s most important contribution may be his insistence on what he called the “existential dimension” of neurological illness: that diseases of the brain are always simultaneously diseases of the self, and that understanding them requires attending to the patient’s experience of selfhood rather than merely to the pathology of the underlying neural mechanisms. His case histories enact precisely the movement from representation to affiliation that Charon’s framework prescribes. They also demonstrate, with unusual clarity, that rigorous clinical observation and humanistic narrative are not competing but complementary modes of knowledge.
Jerome Groopman, How Doctors Think (2007)
Groopman’s work occupies a different register — more journalistic than literary, more oriented toward cognitive science than phenomenology — but it connects powerfully to narrative medicine’s concerns. Through a series of extended case studies, Groopman demonstrates how physicians’ thinking goes wrong: premature closure (accepting the first plausible diagnosis and stopping), anchoring (over-weighting the initial impression), availability bias (over-diagnosing conditions recently prominent in the physician’s experience), and attribution error (assigning symptoms to a pre-existing condition without adequate investigation).
What is striking from a narrative medicine perspective is that virtually all the cognitive errors Groopman documents are failures of attention to the patient’s narrative. The physician who anchors closes off the patient’s story before it is complete; the physician who commits attribution error fails to hear the plot twist that contradicts the working hypothesis. Groopman’s implicit prescription — slow down, listen more carefully, ask open questions — is indistinguishable from narrative medicine’s explicit training programme. Reading How Doctors Think alongside Charon’s theoretical work reveals that cognitive science and narrative theory, approached from different angles, converge on the same clinical insight: the quality of a physician’s listening determines the quality of their diagnosis.
Visual Art: Rembrandt and the Anatomy Lesson
Narrative medicine extends beyond literature into visual art, and few works repay close reading as richly as Rembrandt van Rijn’s The Anatomy Lesson of Dr Nicolaes Tulp (1632). The painting depicts a public dissection in Amsterdam: Dr Tulp demonstrates the musculature of the forearm of a recently executed criminal to seven observers. The composition is remarkable for its distribution of attention: six of the seven observers look not at the body being dissected but at the viewer, the book, or each other; only Dr Tulp gazes at the cadaver and at his own demonstrating hand.
For narrative medicine, the painting raises the question that Charon considers foundational: who is the patient in this scene? The cadaver — Adriaan Adriaanszoon, also known as “Aris Kindt” — is the object of scientific attention, but he is also a person with a biography, a story that ended violently on a scaffold. The anatomy lesson performs, literally and symbolically, the gesture that narrative medicine seeks to reverse: the body reduced to object, the story suppressed in the service of knowledge. Reading the painting closely — attending to the cadaver’s face, to the pallor that Rembrandt renders with such precision, to the space between the clinical act and the human life it consumes — is itself an exercise in the kind of attention narrative medicine cultivates. Using visual art in teaching narrative medicine has the additional advantage of making the interpretive process visible: students who disagree about what a painting means are enacting precisely the dialogic, multiple-perspective engagement that Bakhtin theorised and that clinical encounters require.
6. Narrative Medicine vs Medical Humanities: Related but Distinct
Narrative medicine is sometimes treated as synonymous with medical humanities, but the distinction matters — both intellectually and for institutional purposes. Medical humanities is the broader field: it encompasses history of medicine, ethics, philosophy, sociology, anthropology, literature, and visual arts, and its goals range from cultural critique to professional formation to the improvement of clinical practice. It is a multi-disciplinary domain united by the conviction that humanistic inquiry can enrich medical education and practice.
Narrative medicine is a discipline within this broader field, but distinguished by its specificity of method and its direct claim on clinical practice. Where medical humanities may ask “what does the history of the asylum tell us about the social construction of mental illness?”, narrative medicine asks “how does close reading this poem about dementia change the way you listen to your patient with Alzheimer’s disease in the clinic this afternoon?” The difference is not one of value but of proximate aim: medical humanities is primarily oriented toward understanding; narrative medicine is primarily oriented toward changing clinical behaviour.
The methodological core of narrative medicine — close reading, reflective writing, the analysis of narrative structure — is borrowed from literary studies in a way that is more precisely specified and more pedagogically worked-out than most medical humanities programmes. And narrative medicine’s claim to clinical utility is stronger: it is not primarily an enrichment activity but a skills training programme, one that can be evaluated against clinical outcomes. Charon has consistently resisted the assimilation of narrative medicine into the looser category of medical humanities precisely because that assimilation tends to dilute the methodological rigour that makes the field distinctive.
That said, the fields are deeply complementary. The historical depth that medical humanities brings — the understanding of how concepts of disease, body, and care have varied across cultures and periods — provides essential context for the narrative medicine practitioner. And narrative medicine’s clinical focus gives medical humanities a practical anchor that helps justify its place in crowded medical curricula. The two fields are best understood as nested: narrative medicine is a rigorously specified method within the expansive territory that medical humanities claims as its domain.
7. How Clinicians Can Practice It: Tools for Everyday Use
Narrative medicine is not confined to graduate programmes or academic hospitals. Its core practices can be adopted by any clinician willing to invest time and reflective attention. Three tools are particularly accessible and evidence-supported.
The Parallel Chart
The parallel chart is perhaps narrative medicine’s most distinctive clinical tool. Alongside the official medical record — formal, structured, written for institutional purposes — the parallel chart is a private document in which the clinician records their own narrative of the encounter: what they noticed that they could not record in the EMR, what the patient said that moved them, what they found difficult, what they remain uncertain about. The parallel chart is not a diary; it is a disciplined reflective exercise, and its format — close attention to detail, narrative structure, honest accounting of emotional response — mirrors the practices of close reading.
The clinical purpose is manifold. It preserves information that institutional documentation suppresses (the patient’s exact words, the affective texture of the encounter) but that may be clinically relevant later. It provides a space for the clinician to notice and process their own responses, reducing the risk that unprocessed emotion will distort future clinical judgment. And it serves, over time, as a record of the clinician’s developing narrative competence — a log of the quality of their attention that no EMR can provide.
Close Reading in Clinical Teaching
Close reading as a pedagogical method is directly applicable to clinical education. A narrative medicine seminar typically begins with a short text — a poem, a short story excerpt, a painting — presented to the group without biographical or contextual framing. Participants are asked not to summarise or contextualise but to attend closely to the text’s specific features: its structure, its imagery, its voice, its silences. Discussion unfolds through careful attention to what the text actually does, rather than what one expects it to do.
This practice of disciplined attention is then transferred to the clinical context: the patient’s story, the physical examination, the clinical note become texts to be read with the same precision. In medical schools that have integrated narrative medicine — Columbia, Harvard, UC San Francisco, King’s College London among them — close reading sessions are included in the formal curriculum alongside biomedical science. Evaluations consistently show improvements in students’ reported empathy, their tolerance of ambiguity, and their willingness to engage with patients’ psychosocial contexts.
Reflective Writing
Reflective writing in narrative medicine differs from the general reflective practice advocated in medical education in its attention to craft. Where standard reflective practice asks “what happened, what did I feel, what would I do differently?”, narrative medicine reflective writing asks clinicians to attend to the formal dimension of their own narratives: whose perspective is privileged, what is left out, what metaphors are used, what the structure of the account reveals about the writer’s assumptions.
Charon recommends a specific exercise called the “narrative of the clinical encounter”: immediately after seeing a patient, the clinician writes a brief account of the encounter in whatever form emerges naturally. The account is then read aloud in a small group (in training settings) or analysed privately, with attention to the narrative choices the writer made. Over time, this practice develops what Charon calls “narrative humility” — an awareness of the partiality of one’s own perspective and the inevitability of narrative construction in clinical knowledge. It is a practice with no expensive equipment requirement and no institutional permission needed: it requires only a few minutes and the willingness to be honest with oneself.
Grand Rounds and Case Conferences
Narrative medicine’s methods can also be integrated into existing institutional structures without requiring a dedicated curriculum. Grand rounds presentations can be expanded to include the patient’s narrative alongside the clinical history; case conferences can include time for reflective discussion of the interpersonal and affective dimensions of a case, not merely its diagnostic and therapeutic aspects. These are modest structural changes, but when implemented consistently they shift the culture of clinical education toward the values of attention, representation, and affiliation — making narrative competence a recognised professional virtue rather than a private eccentricity.
8. Conclusion: Listening as Clinical Practice
The argument of narrative medicine is, at its core, straightforward: the stories patients tell are data, and the capacity to receive and interpret those stories is a clinical skill that can and must be trained. In an era when medicine is under pressure — from technology, from system constraints, from the burden of documentation — this argument can seem naively humanistic. In fact, it is hard-headedly practical. The physician who listens well diagnoses more accurately. The clinician who writes reflectively burns out less quickly. The healthcare system that takes patient narratives seriously makes fewer errors and generates more trust.
This post is part of a broader investigation, on this site, into the intersections of data science, artificial intelligence, and medical humanities. In previous posts we have explored how quantitative methods can illuminate questions of human significance, and how the humanities offer resources for thinking about the limits of quantification. Narrative medicine sits precisely at this intersection: it uses the rigorous methods of literary analysis to generate clinical knowledge that quantitative methods alone cannot produce. It is neither anti-scientific nor anti-technological; it is, rather, a reminder that the most advanced clinical tool remains the disciplined human ear.
For clinicians reading this, the invitation is immediate and concrete: choose one patient today, listen to their opening words without interrupting, notice the form of what they say and not merely its content, and write a paragraph — not in the EMR but privately — about what you noticed. That paragraph is the beginning of a parallel chart, and the beginning of a practice that the evidence suggests will make you a better physician and a more resilient one.
Ivan Ilyich, the judge who died alone in Tolstoy’s novella, did not recover. But he died, in Tolstoy’s rendering, with something that had been absent throughout his illness: the experience of being genuinely seen. That experience — of being a person rather than a case, of one’s suffering mattering to another human being — is not a luxury at the margins of clinical care. It is, narrative medicine argues, very close to its centre.
References and Further Reading
- Cassell, E. J. (1991). The Nature of Suffering and the Goals of Medicine. Oxford University Press.
- Charon, R. (2001). “Narrative Medicine: A Model for Empathy, Reflection, Profession, and Trust.” JAMA, 286(15), 1897–1902.
- Charon, R. (2006). Narrative Medicine: Honoring the Stories of Illness. Oxford University Press.
- Frank, A. W. (1995). The Wounded Storyteller: Body, Illness, and Ethics. University of Chicago Press.
- Groopman, J. (2007). How Doctors Think. Houghton Mifflin.
- Halpern, J. (2001). From Detached Concern to Empathy: Humanizing Medical Practice. Oxford University Press.
- Kleinman, A. (1988). The Illness Narratives: Suffering, Healing, and the Human Condition. Basic Books.
- Milota, M. M., van Thiel, G. J. M. W., & van Delden, J. J. M. (2019). “Narrative medicine as a medical education tool: A systematic review.” Medical Teacher, 41(7), 802–810.
- Sacks, O. (1985). The Man Who Mistook His Wife for a Hat. Summit Books.
- Tolstoy, L. (1886). The Death of Ivan Ilyich. Trans. R. Pevear & L. Volokhonsky. Vintage.
- Woolf, V. (1926). On Being Ill. Hogarth Press.