Old Friends

Some books become old friends: two are here. The first friend is Alan Watts classic "The Way of Zen". I have had this book 40 years, as the pre-decimal price in the top right corner will attest! A good introduction to Buddhism, not just Zen. Audio versions of some of his talks are available.

Robert Pirsig's "Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance" was the subject of a recent post by MovingMountain. Despite the title, the book is not explicitly about Zen. I have read the book several times over the years, each time taking something different from it. It is not an easy book, and indeed there is even a book about the book, co-authored by a Jesuit priest no less! But as soon as I read about the shim made from the alloy beer can I knew we were speaking the same language. To this day, I pause when something goes wrong and build up some "gumption" before proceeding. We all know rounded nuts or stripped threads, but there have been several occasions where a pause and a brew has averted disaster. Of course, Phaedrus has more important things to say, not least about Quality.
I have also Pirsig's "Lila, an Inquiry into Morals". That may be his entire output, before he went to Sweden and sailed his boat. A wise man.

I can't imagine anything on my computer being around in 40 years!

The Quiet Art

David Weatherall's book, 'Science and the Quiet Art', is subtitled 'Medical Research & Patient Care'. The cover of the book is of 'The Doctor' by Sir Luke Fildes. Fildes was born in 1843 in Liverpool, and was brought up by his grandmother Mary Fildes, a political activist. He trained at the Warrington School of Art, going on to become the most successful and well-paid portait painter of his day. 'The Doctor' was a £3000 commission from Henry Tate which, although he grumbled about the fee, prompted Fildes to paint more on social matters. The painting is in Tate Britain.

I've been thinking about the 'Quiet Art' as I prepare a talk. I am loosely involved in what has become known as 'molecular medicine'. There is strength to this reductionist approach, indeed most drug discovery proceeds in this way, but there is a risk of hubris: the notion that disease is an undesirable state and the state should be 'fixed' seems too simple, and 'Western' if I may put it that way. You see it in corporate advertising ('Disease has no greater enemy'), and in the press ('fighting disease'). Yet we spend little on palliative care, and in today's FT I read that the UK has over 100 unfilled vacancies for palliative care consultants. Perhaps the work is unattractive, but the end of life is surely as important as the beginning.

There is only so much you can see in a scanned image, so last week I went to the Tate to see it. I had not noticed the child's parents in the pale dawn light from the window, the man with his hand on his the shoulder of his exhausted wife. The first Noble Truth.

It is said that doctors like this picture, and I can why. The seated doctor lit by the shaded lamp could probably do little but give witness to the pain and suffering and see the night through with them. The pale dawn suggests that the child might have made it through the worst.

So, I work on the talk, trying to suggest the 'Quiet Art' is more than molecular medicine. We are more than cellular machines to be "fixed" when broken.

Today was my 59th birthday and so I am perhaps mindful of these things.

To be resumed

More drafts than posts at the moment.
Listening to Bach, Sonatas and Partitas for Violin Solo, Gidon Kremer, ECM New Series, found yesterday in Heffers, Cambridge. Ah, serendipity!

An English Obsession

Nowhere else have I encountered the English obsession with house prices, fanned by a barely numerate press. The 'average' price of a home in the UK is now £200,000, which begs the question how teachers, nurses and other essential and poorly paid workers live, especially in the capital. What prompts this on-going irritation is comment in today's Guardian that Bank of England interest rates remain unchanged at 4.5% for the seventh month running. Fine, but then the gloss:
"The service sector expanded at its strongest pace in nearly two years in February, a recent survey showed, while the Halifax house price index jumped 1.4% last month, pointing to a revival in prices."
Leaving aside how you can have a "revival in prices", the change of 1.4% is based on "soft" criteria, and certainly has substantial error margins: it is not a precise measurement. It could be 0% it could be 2%: the permitted range will be known. To thus say the index "jumped" is, to be polite, imaginative and manipulative. I doubt the journalist would see a salary change of 1.4% as a "jump".
We get the same nonsense in reporting government targets, be it for schools, hospitals, reportable crime — the same belief that the numbers are precise. A change of 0.4% in examination pass-rates becomes an inprovement, a change of -0.4% failure.
Time to grow up.

Gambling with the Planet

Today's image from Mars (where two robot vehicles, designed for a mission of 90 days, have been exploring the surface for the past two years). You can see the tracks as one of the robots, Spirit, goes uphill again. The pictures are returned via one of two satellites orbiting Mars. I am always amazed that these raw data are available for anyone who cares to look. Not all agencies are so far-sighted! Clever stuff, and a glowing testimony to a team that manages this project far from the public eye.

But, this is not my purpose. Today I chanced on an article on climate change that stuck in my mind. Perhaps we are dealing with a "switch" not a "dial". We act as if our impact on the planet is a "dial" we can turn back, if not today, then tomorrow, or when "big oil" allows us. But maybe the switch has been thrown, and we are headed for conditions you see here.

A 60th anniversary

Sixty years ago my parents were married: this is the only picture I have seen that records the day. My mother is Flemish, from the villages around Ieper, unmemorable but for the carnage of the first world war. My father met her at the end of another war, not uncommon for the time, I imagine. Less common perhaps, they were married in Belgium, having but few words to share, and not, I suspect, having the full blessing of her family. Then my father returned home to England and my mother followed later. Both no doubt had expectations that came crashing up against rationing and reality. Those early years were hard for both: for my mother loneliness, a new country, a language to learn, a new child (me), and money tight, and for my dad, sudden unwelcome responsibility for a young man, robbed of his youth by a war. But "human resilience" kicks in, neighbours were good in practical ways, and 60 years on, the evidence is there for me to see. Your Flemish may be limited, your French and German gone, but you beat my dad at scrabble most nights, so I guess you learnt enough English!
Enjoy your day in peace.

"Yet do thy worst, old Time: despite thy wrong,
My love shall in my verse ever live young."

Shakespeare, Sonnet 19, closing lines