First, most of us who live with cancer and its aftermath aren't heroes, or champions of anything. We just want to get back to our ordinary lives as students, workers or parents. The heroic ideal sets standards that few of us can meet. The model of the heroic cancer fighter sits even more uneasily in light of the millions of Americans suffering from terminal forms of cancer: Are they deficient in resolve, resilience or courage because their disease ultimately conquers them? Is it their own fault that they die? In short, there is a disturbing undercurrent to the valorization of the cancer victim that leads us actually to avert our glances from the fact of death that lies at the heart of the disease. Is this new cultural figure merely a recasting of the metaphorical shunning of cancer that Sontag exposed, a way for Americans to avoid dealing with darkness, disfigurement and death?

音声で説明したように、cultural figure（アームストロング）は、ソンタグがさらした暗喩としてのガン（当時は、こういう病にかかるのは本人に何か道徳的な原因があるとされていて、非常に不名誉であり、ガンにかかることは、そういうことを暗示していた、らしい。上の文では離れていますが、意味的にはmetaphorical　cancerです。）　上の文を補足を含めてわかりやすく言い換えると、 昔のアメリカ人がやっていた、ガンを隠すという行為を今度はcast（配役）を変えて、アームさんが演じているだけなんだろうか？それは（人間の）暗部や、醜いもの、そして死に対応（向き合う）するということを避けるアメリカ人（特有の）方法なのだろうか？　　になります。

Take note of the medical pharmaceutical industry's emphasis on the theme of hope. Do we see in this trend another version of the current administration's policy of trying to prevent Americans from witnessing the coffins and bodies of their country's war dead? The yellow Livestrong wristbands, sold by the Lance Armstrong Foundation, epitomize this phenomenon of deflection. Ostensibly signifying support for cancer survivors, the real meaning of these bracelets is establishing a certain hip credibility. As Rob Walker wrote in The New York Times Magazine last year, the bracelets associate their wearer with “a heroic athlete at the height of his popularity.” The supposedly inspirational credo for cancer victims to live with determination becomes a weakened, generalized shout-out to everyone to work out a little harder in your next spinning session. I've never worn the yellow band, or marched in a walk for cancer survivors, or joined a cancer survivors' support group. What I do wear proudly is a thick, pinkish scar that descends about 8 inches starting at my mid-abdomen. It's been on display recently at my local pool, where I engage in the everyday act of being a dad to my two young kids. If I could be so bold as to offer a suggestion to the reigning Tour de France champion, I would say to Armstrong: Take off the superhero mantle, and learn how glorious ordinary life can be. That kind of normalcy is the true goal for most of us living in the aftermath of cancer.