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The Muse invoked
DISSECTING ROOM
LIFELINE Tom Treasure Having survived education at a Christian Brothers’ boarding school, Tom Treasure went to Guy’s Hospital London, in 1965. He trained in general surgery at Hammersmith and St Thomas’s, and in cardiothoracic surgery in London and the USA. He returned to a consultant post at the Middlesex Hospital in 1982, and moved to St George’s in 1990, where he is now Professor of Cardiothoracic Surgery. Who was your most influential teacher? The physiologist David Band, who displays the most remarkable mix of innovative brilliance and hands-on practicality. Which event had most influence on your work and why? Returning to Guy’s in 1970 as a preregistration houseman in the cardiothoracic unit and being inspired by its surgeons, consultants, and registrars, who impressed me with their technical skill, fortitude in adversity, and their warmth and kindness. What would be your advice to a newly qualified doctor? Discover which aspects of your working life are the most irksome and which the most satisfying, and seek a career which irks the least and satisfies the most, because it doesn’t get any easier as you become more senior. What is your greatest fear? Above anything else I fear public professional disgrace. Several senior surgeons, whom I have known personally to be intrinsically good hard-working men, with many virtues and qualities, have ended their careers in this way. What is your worst habit? Speaking my mind too quickly, and being grumpy with those around me when what is bugging me is simply not their fault! What is the greatest love of your life? Waking up to the sound of the sea and slowly realising that I am on the other side of the Channel and there is neither a phone nor bleep in the house. How would you like to die? In spring, at the age of 50, I planted an orchard. 20 to 30 years from now, it should be a nice place to be taken by something sudden and unexpected.
1236
The Muse invoked cience is fun—at least it used to be before institutional jockeying for position in research ratings stifled any pleasure in the individual pursuit of knowledge. Yet scientific communication is usually unspeakably dull. No doubt it was ever thus, but need it be so? After all, science and medicine are full of intelligent and witty men and women. What is it that turns the pleasant, humorous conversationalist in the conference corridor into the tedious babbler, who rambles on beyond the allotted time on the podium? It might not be so bad if the presentations were not accompanied by unreadable or enigmatic slides. There is really no excuse for individuals of high IQ presenting depictions of electrophoresis gels that are as informative as supermarket bar codes, or colossal aminoacid sequence comparisons that cannot be distinguished even from the front row of the auditorium. And many up-and-coming bright sparks need to be counselled that familiarity with the undoubted wonders of computer graphics is no substitute for the simplicity and clarity that are the hallmarks of good communication. As for conference posters—surely the most bizarre form of scientific communication ever devised—how anyone can be expected to assimilate information presented in this indigestible form defeats me. Moreover, since the vast majority of work presented in poster form appears to represent tentative work-in-progress, or isolated snippets of an experimental study concocted to give the authors a pretext to attend the conference, time spent trawling through the dross is seldom rewarding. Small wonder that the majority of conference bags can be seen on the arms of visitors to the local museum or art gallery; at least the posters there offer some uplift to the spirit. The state of the printed word is not much better. Despite the sterling efforts of editors to render the jargon-ridden
S
stodge of authors into acceptable prose, cliché and barbarisms abound in scientific writing. Use of indecipherable abbreviations, an especially selfish piece of laziness, since it puts the onus of effort on the reader, is rife. True, some abbreviations are so commonplace as to be acceptable; who would want to spell out DNA each time it is used? More often the reader is constantly frustrated by having to refer back to the meaning of some alphabetic monstrosity. Then there are the snares that abbreviations lay: organisms do not have MICs (the concentration refers to the antimicrobial agent); and HIV virus is a tautological trap into which it is all too easy to fall. Sometimes, barbarity extends even to the title of scientific papers. What is one to make of the ambiguous “Rapid evaluation of female patients exposed to gonorrhoea by use of the limulus lysate test”, or the all-inclusive “Infection of the chicken with a virulent or avirulent strain of Mycoplasma gallisepticum alone and together with Newcastle Disease virus or Escherichia coli or both” (two genuine examples)? And must we put up with those affirmative titles that declaim the authors’ confidence in the validity of the results (“Increased serum rhubarb is an early indicator of Alzheimer’s disease”)? Surely, this is a form of scientific arrogance. Suppose, as scientific open-mindedness requires, that further evidence indicates the claim to be premature? Clear communication is the life-blood of scientific debate. Elegance and wit add spice to the spoken and written word, but they are merely gilt on the gingerbread. Clarity is quite another matter, and if the Muse is not in cooperative mood, the draft must be put aside for a more propitious time. What price lucidity as a criterion in research assessment rankings?
David Greenwood
THE LANCET • Vol 352 • October 10, 1998
LIFELINE Tom Treasure Having survived education at a Christian Brothers’ boarding school, Tom Treasure went to Guy’s Hospital London, in 1965. He trained in general surgery at Hammersmith and St Thomas’s, and in cardiothoracic surgery in London and the USA. He returned to a consultant post at the Middlesex Hospital in 1982, and moved to St George’s in 1990, where he is now Professor of Cardiothoracic Surgery. Who was your most influential teacher? The physiologist David Band, who displays the most remarkable mix of innovative brilliance and hands-on practicality. Which event had most influence on your work and why? Returning to Guy’s in 1970 as a preregistration houseman in the cardiothoracic unit and being inspired by its surgeons, consultants, and registrars, who impressed me with their technical skill, fortitude in adversity, and their warmth and kindness. What would be your advice to a newly qualified doctor? Discover which aspects of your working life are the most irksome and which the most satisfying, and seek a career which irks the least and satisfies the most, because it doesn’t get any easier as you become more senior. What is your greatest fear? Above anything else I fear public professional disgrace. Several senior surgeons, whom I have known personally to be intrinsically good hard-working men, with many virtues and qualities, have ended their careers in this way. What is your worst habit? Speaking my mind too quickly, and being grumpy with those around me when what is bugging me is simply not their fault! What is the greatest love of your life? Waking up to the sound of the sea and slowly realising that I am on the other side of the Channel and there is neither a phone nor bleep in the house. How would you like to die? In spring, at the age of 50, I planted an orchard. 20 to 30 years from now, it should be a nice place to be taken by something sudden and unexpected.
1236
The Muse invoked cience is fun—at least it used to be before institutional jockeying for position in research ratings stifled any pleasure in the individual pursuit of knowledge. Yet scientific communication is usually unspeakably dull. No doubt it was ever thus, but need it be so? After all, science and medicine are full of intelligent and witty men and women. What is it that turns the pleasant, humorous conversationalist in the conference corridor into the tedious babbler, who rambles on beyond the allotted time on the podium? It might not be so bad if the presentations were not accompanied by unreadable or enigmatic slides. There is really no excuse for individuals of high IQ presenting depictions of electrophoresis gels that are as informative as supermarket bar codes, or colossal aminoacid sequence comparisons that cannot be distinguished even from the front row of the auditorium. And many up-and-coming bright sparks need to be counselled that familiarity with the undoubted wonders of computer graphics is no substitute for the simplicity and clarity that are the hallmarks of good communication. As for conference posters—surely the most bizarre form of scientific communication ever devised—how anyone can be expected to assimilate information presented in this indigestible form defeats me. Moreover, since the vast majority of work presented in poster form appears to represent tentative work-in-progress, or isolated snippets of an experimental study concocted to give the authors a pretext to attend the conference, time spent trawling through the dross is seldom rewarding. Small wonder that the majority of conference bags can be seen on the arms of visitors to the local museum or art gallery; at least the posters there offer some uplift to the spirit. The state of the printed word is not much better. Despite the sterling efforts of editors to render the jargon-ridden
S
stodge of authors into acceptable prose, cliché and barbarisms abound in scientific writing. Use of indecipherable abbreviations, an especially selfish piece of laziness, since it puts the onus of effort on the reader, is rife. True, some abbreviations are so commonplace as to be acceptable; who would want to spell out DNA each time it is used? More often the reader is constantly frustrated by having to refer back to the meaning of some alphabetic monstrosity. Then there are the snares that abbreviations lay: organisms do not have MICs (the concentration refers to the antimicrobial agent); and HIV virus is a tautological trap into which it is all too easy to fall. Sometimes, barbarity extends even to the title of scientific papers. What is one to make of the ambiguous “Rapid evaluation of female patients exposed to gonorrhoea by use of the limulus lysate test”, or the all-inclusive “Infection of the chicken with a virulent or avirulent strain of Mycoplasma gallisepticum alone and together with Newcastle Disease virus or Escherichia coli or both” (two genuine examples)? And must we put up with those affirmative titles that declaim the authors’ confidence in the validity of the results (“Increased serum rhubarb is an early indicator of Alzheimer’s disease”)? Surely, this is a form of scientific arrogance. Suppose, as scientific open-mindedness requires, that further evidence indicates the claim to be premature? Clear communication is the life-blood of scientific debate. Elegance and wit add spice to the spoken and written word, but they are merely gilt on the gingerbread. Clarity is quite another matter, and if the Muse is not in cooperative mood, the draft must be put aside for a more propitious time. What price lucidity as a criterion in research assessment rankings?
David Greenwood
THE LANCET • Vol 352 • October 10, 1998