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In England NowA Running Commentary by Peripatetic Correspondents

THERE is much to be said for publication as a spiritualdiscipline. To begin with, of course, there is the little matterof doing the work so as to have something to publish; but itwould be a mistake to overemphasise this side of the affair,since with the triumphant march of modern medicine it isapparently becoming superfluous. The real struggle betweenthe dignity of Man (i.e., you) and the ineluctable forces of animpersonal hostile universe,(i.e., the Editor) begins only whenthe first fair sheet of paper is ravished by your pen.

Temptations are many. The most insidious of these is thedesire to preface your observations on the courtship behaviourof Siamese fighting-fish in a 2% solution of tranquilliser withsome kind of all-embracing statement on the nature ofscientific knowledge or the meaning of the principle of veri-fiability. The most human is the impulse to take a stab at atheory propounded by the man who got the job you wanted.The most abominable is the combination of exhibitionism andobsessionalism which leads you to head your paper with anirrelevant quotation, out of context, from St. Augustine orEdna St. Vincent Millay, and then to refer to every paper with atitle which contains one or more words in common with yours.Having avoided most of these pitfalls, you rewrite the text

two or three times until it says exactly what you want. Yousend it to the journal you had in mind. It is three times too

long. You can cut it down to half, and the bones of youremaciated piece stand out with embarrassing sharpness andclarity. All those paragraphs of discussion in which youforestall the attacks of a hypothetical critic who seems to

know all your secret doubts and reservations have had to go.In place of your original unassuming detachment there haveappeared, in successive drafts, a detectable inclination in favourof hypothesis A, an obvious bias towards hypothesis B, andfinally a proud declaration of faith in A.At last, the proofs arrive and are returned. But now comes

the second stage of labour. Long weeks go by; you loseconfidence in your work; you lose the sustaining image of aninternational audience athirst to read your contribution to

Britain’s reputation. It is a trying time and one is never farfrom despair. Suddenly, one day, a friend approaches you witha subtle half-smile. " Hello," he says, " I read your letter inMisbehaviour the other day. I really liked it-most amusing."You have arrived; but you realise that travelling hopefullywasn’t so bad compared with this. The last stage in thehumiliation comes when an astronomer or a plastics chemist-someone from a totally irrelevant and tiresome discipline-writes to say that he found your letter to Misbehaviour quiteabsorbing, but did you know that Spishnik and his team atStaroi-Chelavek had hit on the same thing in 1923 ? ?

’*’ ’*’ *

" Well, I don’t like to complain, doctor, but couldn’t it havebeen a bit more private ? There was me, lying there as Godmade me, with the specialist and nurses around, and who shouldcome in but that girl of Mrs. Brown’s from over the road, sheworks there I suppose, with a stack of papers and that sillysmile on her face. ’Why, hallo, Mrs. Hatfield!’ she said."

’*’ ’*’ ’*’

I see that a medical M.P. recently protested that the policehad towed away his Bentley in the Harley-street area while hewas seeing a patient. He seemed amazed that they had thetemerity to lay hands on it since it bore House of Commons andB.M.A. badges. Big game, obviously, and just the sort of catchto appeal to some zealous traffic cop.

Smaller fry are sometimes thrown back to fatten. At least, Ican think of no other reason for the more lenient treatment of

my Morris Minor. (My wife had taken the Bentley and I wastoo lazy to get out my bike.) It was early one morning and I hadparked rather on the corner near my consulting-room, also inthe Harley-street area. Wearing grey flannels and a sportsjacket, I meant to nip in for my letters but was delayed a fewminutes by my receptionist. On returning to the corner my car

was gone. Not for a moment did I flatter myself that it hadbeen stolen, so I plodded along to the nearest blue-lamp H.Q.Yes, said a burly sergeant, consulting a ledger, they had towedmy car away to Paddington Green. A lorry had had to reverseto get round that corner, therefore I was causing an obstruction.I apologised humbly, managed to convince him that I was adoctor despite my casual garb, and brandished the four circu-lars advertising tranquillisers, two bills, and a picture postcardfrom a friend on holiday in Venice as proof that I had been tocollect my letters. The sergeant conferred with a colleague andcame back smiling. One of the constables was going over toPaddington Green and if I cared for a lift in a police car...strictly off the record, of course. So I was driven in a blackpolice car by a smart young policeman. He kept his eyes sternlyon the traffic, gave all the correct signals, and halted punctilious-

, ly at the zebra crossings, while he expatiated on the improve-ment in the flow of traffic since the new parking nieters had beenintroduced in the West End. Even so, he complained, somemotorists persisted in parking in the most dangerous manner.I nearly joined in with some self-righteous condemnations, buton the whole I thought it more tactful to remain silent.

......... *

Like my fellow peripatetic, I too as a student learnedOccam’s splendid tag. Alas, the hallowed Razor has itselfbeen multiplied beyond necessity (save that, perhaps, of Man’seternal need for myth). For that phrase by which we commonfolk remember Occam-is myth. It first saw light in 1639,when it belonged to John Ponce of Cork, " A man of greatabilities and independent disposition ". As for William, itwas first attributed to him much too late for any good it coulddo him-in 1812, to be precise. And as for us, its use is " aserious philosophic corruption ".1 Good Occam; we shallmiss his neat phrase when scholarly precision finally deprivesus of our myth.

...... * *

Last year I was on holiday with a group of people who wereall very keen photographers. While I wandered around withmy box camera slung around my neck as if I’d put it there bymistake, they fixed close-up lenses to their Leicas and tookportraits of spiders, or planned artistic colour films of thesunset. When they weren’t using their cameras they weretalking about them. The subject seemed to me ineffablyboring, and I vowed never to take up photography.Summer passed; winter ended; spring approached. I con-

sidered the matter, and decided that my camera, faithful friend,was due for retirement. Not, of course, that I cared about

photography, but it is pleasant to have a record of one’stravels; I would buy another camera. I studied the choice

available, and made up my mind to buy a simple roll-film one.My studies involved some consideration off values and shutter-speeds ; it seemed necessary to find out about them so as to makethe best use of my money. Eventually I made my final choice.I wanted nothing complicated, and certainly not a miniaturecamera.

Pay day came, and I set out one Saturday to buy my camera.I reached the shop and went in. As if in a dream, I heardmyself saying, " I’m thinking of buying a miniature camera..."

Half an hour later I emerged with my camera, and without agood deal more money than I had intended to pay. I must goback there soon though, as I need an exposure meter, lens hood,filters, tripod, and if possible a rangefinder. I wonder if threeshutter speeds are really enough ?

......... *

Overheard at the Medical Disciplinary Committee.-Q.-Had thedoctor received the letter from hospital ?-A.-No. You see it wasonly three weeks since I left hospital.

STATISTICAL PLOY

A malignant old Proband from BudeTold a Cohort " I’m going to be rude.It’s a pretty fair betYour survivals are nett,Whereas mine is emphatically crude."1. Thorburn, W. M., Mind, 1918, 27, 345.