Dalrymple seems to think so, though I can’t tell if he’s being sarcastic. His experience certainly does make him skeptical of medical trials:
When I was working in Africa I read a paper that proved that intravenous corticosteroids were of no benefit in cerebral malaria. Soon afterwards I had a patient with that foul disease whom I had treated according to the scientific evidence, but who failed to respond, at least as far as his mental condition was concerned – which, after all, was quite important. To save the body without the mind is of doubtful value.
I gave the patient an injection of corticosteroid and he responded as if by miracle. What was I supposed to conclude? That, according to the evidence, it was mere coincidence? This I could not do: and I have retained a healthy (or is it unhealthy?) skepticism of large, controlled trials ever since. For in the large numbers of patients who take part in such trials there may be patients who react idiosyncratically, that is to say, differently from the rest.
Those recent Irish protesters demanding free public water service were starting with a bad premise: that “the state ought to be the main provider and ultimate arbiter of economic life”. No wonder they brought Che Guevara into it.
After much study, the authors of a recent paper in the New England Journal of Medicine have concluded that lack of empathy is associated with callousness. Of course it is, says Dalrymple, because those words mean the same thing.
For a variety of reasons and in many ways, doctors and medical researchers often fail to investigate the harms caused by medical treatments.
This is the royal road to over-treatment: it encourages doctors to be overoptimistic on their patients’ behalf. It also skews or makes impossible so-called informed consent: for if the harms are unknown even to the doctor, how can he inform the patient of them? The doctor becomes more a propagandist than informant, and the patient cannot give his informed consent because such consent involves weighing up a known against an unknown.
Read the details at Pajamas Media
Doctors figure prominently in the works of Stevenson — unsurprising perhaps, since it was true of his life too.
Stevenson’s life and work is always of great interest to doctors. He grew up in the most medical of all British cities, Edinburgh, he was surrounded by doctors and medical students, and he was ill from childhood. He was driven abroad not only by romantic, bohemian restlessness, but by the search for a curative climate for his chronic ill-health.
He spent months on the island of Abemama, in the Gilbert Islands in the central Pacific, where I once worked for three years. Abemama, which in Stevenson’s day was under the sway of a petty tyrant, is still very remote today; and it inspired some of his later writing.
Slavoj Žižek is the archetypal intellectual, in his inscrutability, his charlatanry, his black t-shirt emblazoned with “I WOULD PREFER NOT TO”:
I want to avoid all misunderstanding: this is no condemnation of Professor Žižek; on the contrary…I am not against charlatans; I even admire them if they are amiable, as of course the vast majority of them are (an unamiable charlatan is almost an oxymoron). To be able to glide through life in the knowledge that one is bogus is a great achievement, far greater than that of the majority of genuinely earnest people. If the world, including academia, were to be purged of its charlatans, how dull life would be!
A recent civil suit against a restaurant chain has made Dalrymple deeply critical of the US civil justice system:
It is against natural justice that a person should be able to make a claim against a defendant and have nothing to lose, only something to gain, whereas the other party, the defendant, loses whatever the outcome, in time, in worry, and financially (his costs are not recoverable either in theory or in practice).
Read the whole piece at The Library of Law and Liberty
Are slight reductions in unaffordable spending really austerity?
Suppose that, for a number of years, my spending had been larger than my income, so that I had accumulated a large debt. Suppose also that I had nothing to show for my excess expenditure, which has all gone to increase my level of current consumption. Interest payments on my debt now exceed my outlays on such items as food, clothing, and shelter. The bank to whom I owe the money tells me that things cannot continue like this.
I agree that things cannot go on in the same way, and, as a token of my seriousness, I promise that henceforth, I shall not drink my nightly bottle of Meursault but only half a bottle of Chablis. This will reduce my excess expenditure from, say, 6 percent of my annual income to 4 percent. I call this sacrifice of Meursault for Chablis “austerity.” Would anyone take me seriously?
Many aspects of life could perhaps be divided into classicism versus romanticism, says Dalrymple, writing at The New English Review. While he certainly identifies more with the rationalism of a David Hume or an Alexander Pope, Dalrymple also sees the need for the intuition and passion of a John Keats and wonders what the right balance between the two is.
Clearly Hume would be more in favour of classicism than of romanticism, and on the whole I am with him there. But virtues, aesthetic as well as moral, turn into vices when pushed too far; classicism can become dry, formalistic, and deadening if it is permitted to go on for too long, while romanticism, called into being as a revolt against it, can become in time posturing, insincere and hectoring. Clearly there is a need for both, but what is the happy medium between them? Can it actually exist?
You know the answer.
Human interest cannot be calibrated to its objects in strict proportion to their importance, says Dalrymple in New English Review. For example, take prurience about murder…
…not only because such a standard might not be easy to find or prove, but because human beings are simply not constituted like that, and it would be horrible if they were.