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A very good deed
THE LANCET
JABS & JIBES
LIFELINE Harald zur Hausen Harald zur Hausen qualified in medicine in Düsseldorf, Germany, in 1960. After his training as a virologist in Germany and Philadelphia, USA, he decided to specialise in human tumour virology. Having held various academic posts in Germany, in 1983 he was appointed as scientific director of the German cancer research centre in Heidelberg. Who was your most influential teacher? Werner and Gertrude Henle in Philadelphia introduced me into the first human tumour virus system, the Epstein-Barr virus. This introduction profoundly influenced my own career. Which aspect of your work gives you most pleasure? The studies I did on the role of human papillomaviruses in cervical and anogenital cancer. Here I had the chance to develop a new concept, which my group was fortunately able to support and prove. Which single medical advance would benefit most people? The effective prevention of cancer. Which research paper had most effect on your work? A review written by Rowson and Mahy in 1969 on human wart virus. When I read it, I decided to work in this area. Which alternative profession would you have liked to pursue? Occasionally gynaecology or pathology, but more regularly astronomy. What would be your advice to a newly qualified doctor? Follow your line of interest regardless of the warnings of your colleagues. Whom do you most admire, and why? Besides my wife, I admired Robert Koch, who opened a new area in medical science and relentlessly pursued it throughout his life. What was your biggest mistake? My first publication, when I erroneously assumed that I had established a continuous cell line of human macrophages. Later on it turned out that this was a tissueculture contamination.
890
A very good deed have often wondered what makes one human being spontaneously help another in time of need. Assisting old ladies against their will across a busy road is perhaps not quite the gold standard of altruism, but a similar incident gave me cause to reflect on both the wisdom of good-deedery and the gloomy prospect of old age. It happened several years ago on a Sunday afternoon—at the time, one of those fresh British summer days before global warming gripped the planet. I was driving home from a friend’s house, when I spotted a very old man, still in carpet slippers and dressing gown, teetering precariously on the edge of the road. There was no-one else about, so in a fit of compassion, I stopped the car and asked him whether he was okay. Did he want a ride home? His apparent aphasia didn’t give him a chance against a woman hellbent on rescue. I bundled him in the car. “Where do you live?”, I inquired as we set off. “Near here”, he mumbled. Phew, I thought, already beginning to regret my actions. I urged him to tell me to stop as soon as he recognised his house, but he was obviously confused. After we had travelled up and down the same mile-long street for 15 minutes or so, growing panic replaced all thoughts of glory. To my question repeated every few yards “Just along here?”, the old man would say “Yes”, but there was no glimmer of recognition on his face. “Do you live near the shops”, I asked, querulously. “Yes”. I seized greedily on this new piece of information, so we ventured further afield, a distance which I now realise he couldn’t possibly have walked. “Is it near here?”, I asked. We had arrived in the main high street. “Yes”, he said. I was not convinced. “Perhaps you live in the first street?”. “Yes”. I soon realised that I was on a hiding to nothing.
I
Now back in the first street, I stopped the car and in desperation knocked on a friendly looking door. A kindly man answered. I must have looked sufficiently helpless when I asked whether he had any idea of where the old man lived because he agreed to help. My blinking back the tears and the quiver in my voice must have done the trick and certainly added to the drama. So there I was in my little Fiat 127 hatchback riding up and down a street in a London suburb, with two complete strangers for company, the same questions being asked but this time in stereo. Suddenly the old man came to life. “Here”, he said excitedly. “I live here.” I am not a religious person but I said a quiet prayer of thanks, and then the awful truth dawned on me. An hour after the shenanigans had started, we were back at the very place I had picked him up—outside his home. I hastily withdrew my prayer as we helped him out of the car and to his front door, which was ajar. He lived there alone, and my helper and I set about making him a cup of tea. A flurry of noise signalled the arrival of his son, who was understandably distressed to find two strangers who to all intents and purposes were making themselves at home in his father’s house. We hastily explained, and his ire mellowed to thanks. Back at the car, having offered to drop my helper home, he hesitated— not, it soon emerged, because we were no longer chaperoned, but because he didn’t want to sit on a soaking wet seat. The poor old man had obviously lost control of his bladder. I transported my helper home (he sat in the back seat), thanked him profusely, and contemplated how I was going to clean a foamfilled car seat. Not long after, I sold the car. Pia Pini
Vol 349 • March 22, 1997
JABS & JIBES
LIFELINE Harald zur Hausen Harald zur Hausen qualified in medicine in Düsseldorf, Germany, in 1960. After his training as a virologist in Germany and Philadelphia, USA, he decided to specialise in human tumour virology. Having held various academic posts in Germany, in 1983 he was appointed as scientific director of the German cancer research centre in Heidelberg. Who was your most influential teacher? Werner and Gertrude Henle in Philadelphia introduced me into the first human tumour virus system, the Epstein-Barr virus. This introduction profoundly influenced my own career. Which aspect of your work gives you most pleasure? The studies I did on the role of human papillomaviruses in cervical and anogenital cancer. Here I had the chance to develop a new concept, which my group was fortunately able to support and prove. Which single medical advance would benefit most people? The effective prevention of cancer. Which research paper had most effect on your work? A review written by Rowson and Mahy in 1969 on human wart virus. When I read it, I decided to work in this area. Which alternative profession would you have liked to pursue? Occasionally gynaecology or pathology, but more regularly astronomy. What would be your advice to a newly qualified doctor? Follow your line of interest regardless of the warnings of your colleagues. Whom do you most admire, and why? Besides my wife, I admired Robert Koch, who opened a new area in medical science and relentlessly pursued it throughout his life. What was your biggest mistake? My first publication, when I erroneously assumed that I had established a continuous cell line of human macrophages. Later on it turned out that this was a tissueculture contamination.
890
A very good deed have often wondered what makes one human being spontaneously help another in time of need. Assisting old ladies against their will across a busy road is perhaps not quite the gold standard of altruism, but a similar incident gave me cause to reflect on both the wisdom of good-deedery and the gloomy prospect of old age. It happened several years ago on a Sunday afternoon—at the time, one of those fresh British summer days before global warming gripped the planet. I was driving home from a friend’s house, when I spotted a very old man, still in carpet slippers and dressing gown, teetering precariously on the edge of the road. There was no-one else about, so in a fit of compassion, I stopped the car and asked him whether he was okay. Did he want a ride home? His apparent aphasia didn’t give him a chance against a woman hellbent on rescue. I bundled him in the car. “Where do you live?”, I inquired as we set off. “Near here”, he mumbled. Phew, I thought, already beginning to regret my actions. I urged him to tell me to stop as soon as he recognised his house, but he was obviously confused. After we had travelled up and down the same mile-long street for 15 minutes or so, growing panic replaced all thoughts of glory. To my question repeated every few yards “Just along here?”, the old man would say “Yes”, but there was no glimmer of recognition on his face. “Do you live near the shops”, I asked, querulously. “Yes”. I seized greedily on this new piece of information, so we ventured further afield, a distance which I now realise he couldn’t possibly have walked. “Is it near here?”, I asked. We had arrived in the main high street. “Yes”, he said. I was not convinced. “Perhaps you live in the first street?”. “Yes”. I soon realised that I was on a hiding to nothing.
I
Now back in the first street, I stopped the car and in desperation knocked on a friendly looking door. A kindly man answered. I must have looked sufficiently helpless when I asked whether he had any idea of where the old man lived because he agreed to help. My blinking back the tears and the quiver in my voice must have done the trick and certainly added to the drama. So there I was in my little Fiat 127 hatchback riding up and down a street in a London suburb, with two complete strangers for company, the same questions being asked but this time in stereo. Suddenly the old man came to life. “Here”, he said excitedly. “I live here.” I am not a religious person but I said a quiet prayer of thanks, and then the awful truth dawned on me. An hour after the shenanigans had started, we were back at the very place I had picked him up—outside his home. I hastily withdrew my prayer as we helped him out of the car and to his front door, which was ajar. He lived there alone, and my helper and I set about making him a cup of tea. A flurry of noise signalled the arrival of his son, who was understandably distressed to find two strangers who to all intents and purposes were making themselves at home in his father’s house. We hastily explained, and his ire mellowed to thanks. Back at the car, having offered to drop my helper home, he hesitated— not, it soon emerged, because we were no longer chaperoned, but because he didn’t want to sit on a soaking wet seat. The poor old man had obviously lost control of his bladder. I transported my helper home (he sat in the back seat), thanked him profusely, and contemplated how I was going to clean a foamfilled car seat. Not long after, I sold the car. Pia Pini
Vol 349 • March 22, 1997