Monthly Archives: May 2015

Don’t Aim for Happiness

Dalrymple reacts to a book called Becoming Your Real Self: A Practical Toolkit for Managing Life’s Challenges:

…I don’t really believe in our true self. Perhaps I have heard too many people who repeatedly did the most terrible things and said that those things were not expressions of their real selves to be other than impatient of the whole concept of the real self. We may sometimes act out of character, in fact we all sometimes do, but that is another thing entirely; we cannot act out of character all the time, because how we act all the time is our character.

Read the entire piece here

Falstaff the Brave

There really is such a thing as a pointless intellectual pleasure, but take all those Shakespeare scholars arguing over the real provenance of the man’s work. Are they really debating a matter of trivial importance, or do these partisans not hope to make something of a larger point about humanity? Maurice Morgann’s essay from 1777 on Falstaff is a good example:

..his Essay, by far his best-known work… was written, according to the author himself, purely for the intellectual pleasure of proving something of no importance. He wrote it for his own and other people’s pleasure, and for no other reason.

Actually, I think that here he was not being quite frank. Just as even the most cynical of hack journalists harbours the faint hope that a few of his pages might survive his death, so Morgann had a sneaking hope that his little book had more significance than he earlier claims for it.

Read the full piece at New English Review

How to Take Advantage of an Air Crash

Dr. Dalrymple informs us that he’s just begun blogging for Psychology Today. “Psychiatric Disorder: Against the idols of the age” is the name of his blog there, and he’s already written several posts which seem to touch on the intersection of psychology, current events and notable experiences from his own daily life — in keeping with his customary output then. In other words, more of the stuff we love!

The first post examines some interesting takeaways from the news that a woman has falsely claimed to be a relative of a victim of the Germanwings plane crash. Notice, for one thing, how easily she was believed:

She had only to claim to be a relative of the victim of the crash, that is to say to be a victim herself, to be believed. True enough, very few people would dare to commit such a fraud in this situation, so the company would not have been on its guard against such attempts; but there is also a general cultural atmosphere in which claims to victimhood are challenged, if ever at all, only very gingerly. This is because any such challenge can easily be parlayed by the supposed victim into further, or meta-, victimhood. Not to take someone at his word is to cause him further trauma.

Read the full post here

The Gold-Rimmed Spectacles

Note: When Dalrymple’s long-running BMJ column ended in 2012, he had a backlog of around 50 or 60 unpublished pieces, and he kindly gave them to us to post here at Skeptical Doctor. We are posting one each Wednesday to coincide with the schedule of his old BMJ column. We hope you enjoy them.

Among the many writers whose father was a doctor was Giorgio Bassani (1916 – 2000). He was also one of those writers whose work was intensely local: other writers wander the world in search of inspiration. The universal can be found either in the strange or in the familiar; it is a matter of temperament where writers seek it.

His novels and stories are set in the beautiful Italian city of Ferrara but at the time of the deep moral squalor of Mussolini’s regime. The contrast between the aesthetic and moral qualities of the setting heightens the drama.

The protagonist of his short novel, The Gold-Rimmed Spectacles, is a doctor, Dr Athos Fadigati. Dr Fadigati is an ENT surgeon from Venice who sets up an elegant clinic in Ferrara just after the end of the First World War. As such, he becomes a member of the local haute bourgeoisie, but he also becomes the subject of local gossip, increasingly malevolent. The gold-rimmed spectacles of the title are those that the doctor wears and are characteristic of him.

Dr Fadigati is noticed to have odd habits. At the cinema, for example, he sits in the cheap seats, among the poor, for example among the soldiers, rather than in the circle where his fellow bourgeois sits. He is unmarried, and eventually the penny drops: he is homosexual.

His ruination begins when he is seen only too openly in the company of a handsome young man from Ferrara, Eraldo Deliliers, at the Adriatic resort of Riccione, where the entire Ferrarese bourgeoisie spends its summer holidays. A scandal occurs when Eraldo has an argument with his rich, ageing and plump lover in the lobby of the hotel, and punches him.

Dr Fadigati’s practice declines and then dwindles practically to nothing. At the end of the story he is found drowned (by suicide) in the River Po in Pontelagoscuro, a suburb of Ferrara.

The narrator is a young student from Ferrara who, like Bassani himself, studied at the University of Bologna, and belongs to the Jewish bourgeoisie of the city. At the time of Dr Fadigati’s suicide, Mussolini – whom some of the Jewish bourgeoisie had strongly supported in the early days of his regime – opportunistically enacted anti-semitic laws in order to curry favour with his ally, Hitler. Later, after the time in which the novel is set, 96 of the 300 Ferrarese Jews were to be deported to Poland, and only 5 survived.

Clearly, Bassani intends the reader to draw a parallel between the way in which Dr Fadigati is treated and the increasing persecution of the narrator and his co-religionists. The latter is not presented as a plaster saint or an immaculate victim: in the story he has behaved indiscreetly and even foolishly. But he is clearly not a bad man and does not deserve his fate.

Bassani did not deserve his fate either. He had been briefly imprisoned in 1943 for his anti-fascist activities, the regime fortunately collapsing before worse could befall him; but in the last two years of his life there was an unseemly dispute among his relatives as to his capacity to dispose of his property, which depended upon whether he suffered from Parkinson’s disease, which was at least partially treatable, or Alzheimer’s, which was not. Ill-will comes in many guises, perhaps infinitely many.

Legal Protection Rackets

Dalrymple writes at Salisbury Review on the need for tort reform:

Every litigant should have something to lose and claim companies should be prohibited. Quite often I am telephoned by such companies to say they know that I have been involved in an accident and may have a claim for compensation. This is quite clearly dishonest but I suppose must be profitable, or it wouldn’t be done.

Read the full piece here

Doing the Charleston

Dalrymple writes at the New English Review of a recent conversation with a defender of modern architecture:

One of the things that most struck me about my interlocutor was what one might call his aesthetic pointillism. Each tiny portion of a townscape was for him individual and unrelated to any other. Thus for him it would not be a sacrilege to erect a Dubai-style skyscraper in the middle of Venice on the grounds that it would destroy the aesthetic unity of the city (which, of course, is very far from that of a unity of style of individual buildings). The loss would not be irreparable because the vast majority of the city would remain intact. Needless to say, no heritage could long survive this pointillism: it is aesthetic barbarism.

The New Whitney: A Reply

A critic of Dalrymple’s earlier review (here) of New York’s new Whitney Musem says to look at this piece in the Guardian for “a more balanced” view. Dalrymple’s reply in City Journal asks whether the review in the Guardian is really better or just more “evasive and cowardly”.

Does “trumpeting awkwardness” in some way cancel out ugliness, and if so, why? Does the boldness of a criminal make his act any the less criminal? Note also that the author refrains from saying whether he (as against, presumably, most people) finds the building shockingly ugly. Nor is there any explanation as to why the ability to read “thin slivers of sense” (would it be better or worse if they were thick slices instead?) from “the great industrial bricolage” should—whatever to do so actually means—be a virtue in a great public building ostensibly dedicated to art.

In Northamptonshire polythene grows on trees

Why is a private toll road in Britain free of the litter that mars a nearby public road? Dalrymple has several possible answers:

Perhaps the private company that owns it takes care of it better than any British council would do. Perhaps the class of person using it is different from those who decline to use it because of its cost. Or perhaps the people who use it, having paid for the privilege of doing so, are rendered more reluctant to ruin the appearance of what they pass through.

Read the rest at the Salisbury Review