#75: More or Less

 

I'm very happy every time I hear that the BBC radio four programme ‘More Or Less ‘ is returning to the airwaves. The programme fact checks statistics in the news, from whether cutting the winter fuel payment to pensioners causes excess winter deaths (answer: possibly, but it’s impossible to put a number on it), to whether South-Eastern Railways clears 50 million leaves from their line each year (answer: unverifiable, file it in the ‘silly drawer’).

There are also year-round weekly podcasts with longer interviews, coverage of new books on numbers and statistics, and lately fact checking claims made by Donald Trump, which seems rather an easy target.

What’s it like?

The programme is non-polemical, light and often jokey in tone, and made up of varied voices. However, this does not stop it paying attention to the complexity of statistics and the questions being grappled with, showing how click-bait headlines often mislead (and occasionally don’t), how correlation does not mean causation and the results you get depend on the questions you ask and the factors you consider. Sounds pretty basic research practice, but as the programme shows, researchers don’t always follow best practice, and even if they do, journalists often don’t when reporting the research.

But it goes beyond fact checking; if a statistic is shown to be false, the researchers try to establish the real answer, and if not ask whether a real answer is actually possible. Along the way they dip into statistical principles such as different kinds of averages and sample sizes.

Three items

Here are three items from the programme which have stuck in my mind:

Have about one in three women in the UK had an abortion? (Answer: probably yes; 21.53 minutes into the programme).

Are black mothers five times more likely than white mothers to die during childbirth in the UK? (Answer: they are about four times more likely to die during pregnancy or up to 6 weeks afterwards. This is due to underlying health conditions such as heart disease or diabetes; also to behaviour, such as whether they attend antenatal classes. There is no evidence that it’s due to race per se, or mothers being treated differently because of race. The risk of dying during pregnancy or up to 6 weeks afterwards is very low for all women in the UK – about 60 women per year.

Can you divide 1 by 0? (Answer: it can’t be done; 22.25 into the programme; and the answer isn’t infinity; 14.15 into the following week’s programme after a storm of replies).

It’s very BBC, or should be

The programme hits all three targets of BBC founder Lord Reith’s vision for the corporation: ‘inform, educate and entertain’. In fact, I would like to see BBC content in general more like this – focused on fact-finding and checking, resulting in a valuable archive of programmes, educational not only in content but in investigative method. Fewer shock headlines and more measured findings. Less impact short-term, more long-term.

I would like them to look at…

And what statistical question would I like the programme to investigate? Well, Professor Brian Cox stated on Radio 3’s Private Passions that worldwide, more is spent on peanuts than on science; and, perhaps more verifiably, that more is spent on mobile phone ring tones than on meteorite defence systems. Sounds suspicious. Get onto it, More Or Less!

 

#74: Candlemas

                                    

Coming to the end of this cold, wet month, I’ve enjoyed Eleanor Parker’s book Winters in the World, an exploration of the Anglo-Saxon experience of the seasons through Anglo-Saxon poetry and historical and religious works.

Close to the weather

Several things struck me (apart from the beauty of Anglo-Saxon poetry such as The Seafarer, which I haven't read since my undergraduate days). Firstly, how dependent on and close to the weather people were then, since it could make the difference between famine or plenty. Also, the seasons gave meaning and structure to people’s lives much more strongly than they do now. Thirdly, how important communal celebrations were, and the sheer number of them that existed.

The origin of Candlemas

Often newly-introduced Christian celebrations were meshed into the year’s weather cycle. This happened with the 2 February Christian festival of Candlemas. The festival commemorates Mary and Joseph taking the 40-day-old Jesus to be presented at the temple. They were met by the elderly Anna and her husband Simeon, who recognised the baby as the Messiah. Simeon took him in his arms and spoke a prayer which became the Christian Nunc Dimittis: ‘Lord, now let your servant depart in peace, according to your word; for my eyes have seen your salvation’.

Says Parker:

This means that Candlemas is a festival which has at its heart a meeting between childhood and old age, birth and death, and winter and spring. The dating of the feast was fixed by its biblical origin, because the period of purification appointed in the law of Moses meant it must take place 40 days after Christ’s birth. However, 2 February coincided with a significant point in the solar year: midway between the winter solstice and the spring equinox, it’s a time when the days are getting longer, daylight is growing stronger, and in northern Europe the earliest spring flowers are starting to appear. It was a natural time for a festival of light, and that was what Candlemas became.

So Candlemas fuses Christianity (and before that, Jewish law) and the natural rhythm of the year. People celebrated it, Parker tells us, by taking candles to church to be blessed, so echoing Christ being presented in the temple. Then, after a procession, people took the candles home and kept them all year.

Periods of dearth and plenty have disappeared in our age of supermarkets and year-round strawberries. But do we not still create them, showing that such rhythms are important, even if artificially-induced? For example, I’m just coming to the end of Dry January, which strikes me as a secular version of Lent.

Book recommendation

As for the book, it is scholarly but accessible. It explains clearly which sources are used and what they allow us to say, as in a two-page discussion of whether the modern word ‘Easter’ does come from the pagan goddess Eostre, the only evidence for which is one statement in Anglo-Saxon historian Bede’s Reckoning of Time, a discussion of the medieval church calendar. Parker thinks that on balance the festival may have been named for a Kentish goddess, and explains why she thinks so, briefly surveying the history of the argument and sources involved. It is brave not to fear losing the general reader by detailing sources and uncertainties.  

This is a good read for a chilly time of year. It encourages celebration or at least a marking of lean times, before the first blossoms appear. Happy Candlemas!

#73: The Places in Between

This book is a chronicle of Rory Stewart’s 36-day walk through central Afghanistan in January 2002, from Herat in the west to Kabul in the east, starting six weeks after the Taliban were removed from power after 9/11. Stewart likes a challenge. He decides to take the shorter, but harder and colder, route through the central mountains (rather than the longer southern route around them) since the Taliban still controls parts of the south. He goes in winter because he does not want to wait for the snow to melt.

In the footsteps of the first Mughal emperor

He discovers he is following in the footsteps of Babur, the first emperor of Mughal India, who crossed the mountains at the beginning of the sixteenth century when he was still prince of a poor part of Uzbekistan (before going on to conquer Kabul and then Delhi). Babur’s diary is a constant accompaniment on the journey, and Stewart comments on it: ‘What he did was very dangerous, but he never draws attention to this. Instead, he focuses on the people he meets and uses portraits of individuals to suggest a whole society.… He does not embroider anecdotes to make them neater, funnier, more personal or more symbolic.’

Stewart tries to follow Babur’s lead by painstakingly describing people and places as he asks for hospitality each night. He generally rejects journalistic or political generalisations, and is unwilling to search for premature meanings, often leaving conversations and episodes open-ended without trying to analyse them. Like Babur, Stewart tries not to embroider, commenting early on that ‘abrupt episodes and half understood conversations already suggested a society that was an unpredictable composite of etiquette, humour and extreme brutality’, and describes an episode in which one of his companions points a gun at children for fun.

It’s clear that Stewart knows a great deal about which local people hold power in the different areas of the country, and about Western intervention, but this is mainly cleared to the sides of the main story – his trek in freezing temperatures, often living only on bread, spurning lifts when offered, experiencing great kindness from hosts who are much poorer than him. For most of the journey his closest companion is a semi-domesticated mastiff with yellow wolf’s eyes whose trust he slowly gains, who he names Babur. His relationship with the dog is for me the most touching thing in the book.

Detailed descriptions as a form of respect

Another joy of the book is its descriptive detail. One night just over halfway through the journey, Stewart is attacked by some boys throwing stones at him, and asks an old man if he can walk with him to escape the intimidating attentions of three other men. He is then invited by a man called Aktar to stay in his house and then to a castle guest room, where he is allowed to light a small fire but not the stove for lack of fuel. Stewart is ill and stares at the castle ceiling for hours:

[it] was made from a frame of poplar branches, their brown, curled leaves still attached. The mud floor was partly covered by a shabby striped blanket, two pieces of dark felt and a small cheap rug in the Bokhara style. Mattresses were stacked in the corner under a grimy white sheet. The walls were undecorated except for a photograph of my absent host, the feudal lord Bushire Khan, with a pencil-thin moustache and a trilby hat. He looked like a 1930s Shanghai gangster.

I woke later feeling a little better to find a girl by the fire. She looked about 17. Her beautiful pale face was scrunched in concentration as she crumbled dry animal dung into the hearth. Both her hair and eyebrows were very black, as though she had dyed them. She wore a gold cap in a blue embroidered turban and, over her dress of blue chintz, a purple waistcoat and a green embroidered wool cardigan. A pair of blue corduroy trousers showed beneath the skirt. She raised her head and met my eyes. I smiled. She looked at me expressionlessly and then turned and left the room.

Such descriptions are a form of respect for the country, and allow us to take our time imagining the journey, the landscape, the people.

The minaret of Jam

During the journey he comes across the minaret of Jam, a solitary column in the midst of mountains, decorated with turquoise tiles and densely patterned bricks. Stewart thinks this could be the remains of Turquoise Mountain, the capital city of the Ghorid empire, before it was destroyed by Genghis Khan. This had been excavated under Western-led programmes before but when Stewart visited, after a decade of destruction of cultural heritage under the Taliban, no one outside the region knew whether it was still standing.

Bushire, a powerful military man in the area, tells Stewart he gets money from foreigners to direct a society which protects the tower. He tells Stewart they have sold most of the things they have dug up. Stewart asks him:

‘What have you found out about the life of this ruined city?’

‘I don’t understand. What do you mean?’

I tried again. ‘Have you found out roughly what the plan of the city was… where the bazaar was, the religious schools?’

‘No.’

‘The smaller mosques, the gardens, the military barracks?’

‘No. You are asking difficult questions. We just dig downwards and we find a jumble of things.’

Bushire says the city has been destroyed twice, once by hailstones and once by Genghis. The group laugh when Stewart tells them they are destroying what remains.

Stewart would like to see the villagers employed by an official archaeological team and the site enclosed and monitored, and laments that the ‘international community’ did not act before it was too late.

The minaret of Jam

Local, personal meaning

Stewart says at the end: ‘Nothing in my life has brought me as much fulfilment as my walk in Afghanistan and my work in Afghanistan.… I hope, therefore, the book will survive not as a metaphor of something international and political, but as a chronicle of an experience which found its deepest meaning when it was at its most local and most personal.’

He subsequently returned to the country and set up the charity Turquoise Mountain which restores buildings, has built a clinic and a school, trains craftspeople and helps them launch businesses. It has since expanded to Saudi Arabia, Myanmar and the Levant.

 

#72: In Our Time

 

One of my favourite programmes on BBC Radio 4 is the long-running series ‘In Our Time’, in which three guests, usually academics, discuss central topics, events and people from history, science, religion, philosophy, literature, natural history and more. Three weeks ago it was Italian writer Italo Calvino. The previous episode was on the Antikythera Mechanism, an ancient Greek bronze object rescued from the seabed in 1900 which experts think was a kind of analogue computer for calculating the movements of the planets and stars.

What does the programme contain?

Typically the three participants introduce the topic broadly, then explore it in more detail and finally comment on its legacy for present and future times. The programme is 42 minutes long (plus some ‘bonus material’ available on catch-up, in which guests add something they didn’t have time for). Veteran presenter Melvyn Bragg manages the discussion.

The medieval composer Hildegard of Bingen has featured 

One of the programme’s attractions to me is that it explores these topics on their own terms rather than through the filter of present-day preoccupations and values. It usually starts by placing the person, work or idea firmly in their own time (despite the title of the series). Only towards the end of the programme does Bragg ask explicitly about current opinion of the topic. The programme also eschews modern parallels with its subjects. And despite the efforts of the ‘In Our Time’ website to provide click-bait soundbites (‘it remains shocking today’ on the Sistine Chapel), this is long form listening without bells and whistles – just talk.

Why listen instead of read?

So why listen to the programme when you could read Wikipedia, more quickly, for an overview?

One reason is that because it is spoken, one is somehow more aware of the fluidity of knowledge, that it is always developing. In addition, something of the personality of the speakers and their enthusiasm comes across, and it is interesting to hear the often skilful way both they and Bragg marshal the material.

As an example of all of these, here is a fairly long, lightly edited, excerpt from the September 2024 programme on wormholes (shortcuts between galaxies):

Katy Clough: One speculative idea that’s quite fun to think about is the idea that universes are born in black holes. So when you have a black hole, instead of having a singularity, you actually balloon out into a new universe, so maybe the collapse of a star can be the birth of a new universe. And I’ve always kind of liked that, but I think I like it for purely aesthetic reasons and not for any good scientific reason.…

Melvyn Bragg: There’s talk that in one sense physics is as imaginative as science fiction – what do you make of that?

Andrew Pontzen: I agree that physics is fundamentally a very imaginative endeavour… We were talking about Newton and his unification of the heavens with earthly phenomena – if that’s not a leap of imagination, I don’t know what is.… Science more broadly requires a huge amount of imagination as well as experimental rigour – [we need to find] the right balance, and we’ve been right on the edge of that talking about wormholes because we are so far away from experiment.

Toby Wiseman: I might say actually it’s creative rather than necessarily imaginative. Particularly when we talk about these fundamental sciences, our understanding of the universe is really a mathematical one… Newton didn’t just give us gravity, he gave us the notion that you could really analytically control physical phenomena through mathematics, and he developed calculus in order to do that. Then for hundreds of years, the theme that has dominated is, you can imagine wonderful things and be creative in working with maths, but at the end of the day the mathematics keeps you honest. We would never understand the universe in the way it is today if it wasn’t for for the fact that it didn’t require imagination – it’s all there in the mathematics. When for example in 1916 the first black hole solution was written down… it wasn’t understood to be a black hole solution, but at the same time there it was.

Andrew Pontzen: I think we’ve finally found a point of disagreement, which is an achievement! If you look at someone like Faraday, for example, Faraday did remarkable experiments on electricity and magnetism in the mid nineteenth century and had very little mathematical ability… And yet he was able to extrapolate… He wrote about things like ray vibrations… – these were things that came out of his mind, they were not mathematically elucidated. And the fact Michell was writing about black holes in the time of Newton, long before someone came along and got the maths correct. So I don’t think it’s as clear cut as you say.

Actually the disagreement above is a rarity on ‘In Our Time’; the academics usually support or praise each other’s speeches. This is one deficiency of the programme, since differing viewpoints make a good discussion, and is a reason for inviting different guests. Another disappointment for me is the literature episodes, since guests talk about the literature but rarely quote it. This is a missed opportunity to let people, both guests and listeners, respond to poetry or novels moment-by-moment or to compare knowledge about the writer as a person with their actual writing. For example, in a programme on Simone de Beauvoir, Melvyn Bragg asked Professor of French Margaret Atack to give listeners a ‘taste’ of some of the disturbing content of the letters between Beauvoir and Jean Paul Sartre. The Professor responded in generalities and it was left to Bragg to say that the letters include details of how the two philosophers took the virginity of girls and passed them between them. Even then there were no direct quotes from the letters. One can also hear Bragg’s occasional frustration with academics being over-subtle rather than defining their terms or stating their position straightforwardly.

My top three?

Three that stick in my mind are on Heisenberg’s Uncertainty Principle, the idea that you can accurately measure either the position or momentum of an atomic particle, but not both; the Paleocene-Eocene Thermal Maximum, about 50 million years ago, when crocodiles swam at the North Pole; and The Economic Consequences of the Peace, on John Maynard Keynes’s book attacking the 1919 Versailles agreement at the end of World War I. There’s also a listeners’ top 10 here.

The Muses and the history of inspiration were another topic

#71: Gratitude

 

Picture credit: @DigitalMosaics 

I’ve been intrigued to see the prioritisation of gratitude a couple of times recently, one in the ethos of the very successful Michaela secondary school in north-west London, who ‘love to celebrate kindness and gratitude’, the other in a speech by author Douglas Murray to a class at New York’s Columbia University in which he praised the ‘unpopular virtue’ of gratitude and exhorted students not to live lives ‘tied up in resentment’. Before this, I recollect reading claims that gratitude improves psychological well-being.

Why gratitude?

Why be grateful, rather than happy? Gratitude is to someone or something, so I suppose it implies that you alone are not responsible for good things and thus encourages an acknowledgement of wider society. It also implies a sense of obligation to that society, an owed return, however small.

Grateful to who?

Traditionally, of course, thanks were and are devoted to God. But there are many other possibilities – people past and present, known and unknown; nature’s processes; even man-made objects.

Are there proven benefits of being grateful?

Some research looks at ‘dispositional gratitude’, a tendency to notice positive aspects of life – being naturally cheerful. This type of gratitude contributes to well-being according to this 2015 study with 233 participants. Likewise, this 2020 study says it is ‘moderately to strongly correlated’ with well-being. So if you are more inclined to feel grateful, you are likely to be happier. Unsurprising, perhaps – bordering on the tautological?

Then there are ‘gratitude interventions’, in which people are asked to do extra things such as keep a gratitude journal. Evidence in support of these is more mixed. A 2017 analysis of 38 studies found that encouraging people to develop their gratitude can improve ‘numerous outcomes, including happiness’, but that benefits may be overemphasised. This 2020 study found that gratitude interventions had only modest effects on depression and anxiety, and recommended that people find other ways of reducing these feelings. This 2016 analysis of 20 studies found that gratitude interventions with young people were generally ineffective.

On this evidence, it is hard to escape the conclusion that if you are naturally inclined to be grateful you will be happier. If you are not, it is harder to cultivate happiness through deliberately feeling grateful. None of the studies I looked at seemed to measure long term happiness, though of course it would be much harder to attribute this to a single factor such as gratitude.

What would I be grateful for?

Once I start thinking, the list seems endless. The astoundingly lucky chain of processes which mean the Earth has surface water, and thus can support life. The fact that life ever evolved in the first place. All the public and private health advances that mean I have lived over 20 years more than the average person in the Middle Ages. City planners, lawmakers, educators, people who have sat on committees to push through regulations on pensions, education, rights, health and safety legislation, transport… The fact that I happen to live in a stable country with low crime levels. Being able to work from home, even. Such statements sound unexciting and don’t make headlines, but are true nonetheless.

Short-term things to be grateful for

Here, at random, are some things just from the past week:

HMRC’s plain English, clear, step-by-step tax self-assessment webpages. A lot of thought has gone into making this process accessible and bureaucracy-lite.

The Saturday Walkers’ Club – they organise a fantastic selection of walks in the UK, all reachable by train, put together and updated by volunteers.

Five well-stocked supermarkets within walking distance.

Suncream.

Seeing friendly faces nearly every time I go out in the town where I live.

Gratitude in literature

To finish, here are a poet and novelist being grateful. The first celebrates an overflowing thankfulness to God for another day, the second expresses a longer-term debt to the generations that have preceded us. The first ecstatic, the second sober. The first leaning towards feeling, the second towards thinking. Gratitude interventions indeed.

i thank You God for most this amazing

i thank You God for most this amazing
day: for the leaping greenly spirits of trees
and a blue true dream of sky; and for everything
which is natural which is infinite which is yes

(i who have died am alive again today,
and this is the sun’s birthday; this is the birth
day of life and of love and wings: and of the gay
great happening illimitably earth)

how should tasting touching hearing seeing
breathing any—lifted from the no
of all nothing—human merely being
doubt unimaginable You?

(now the ears of my ears awake and
now the eyes of my eyes are opened)

E. E. Cummings

And from a novel:

But the effect of her being on those around her was incalculably diffusive: for the growing good of the world is partly dependent on unhistoric acts; and that things are not so ill with you and me as they might have been, is half owing to the number who lived faithfully a hidden life, and rest in unvisited tombs.

These are the closing lines of Middlemarch by George Eliot (speaking of the book’s heroine, Dorothea). Does that ‘incalculably’ hint at things which research cannot capture?

picture credit: John Hain

#70: Parklife

 

Ducketts Common (a rather flattering shot)

Ducketts Common lies opposite Turnpike Lane tube station in north London. Calling it an ‘oasis’ or ‘green lung’ would be stretching it; the common is only 24,000 m² (smaller than most parks) and is bordered by the wide and noisy Green Lanes as it takes over from Wood Green High Road.

Park life

I’d always thought of it as a bit scrubby and barren, but jogging round it on a few occasions recently I found a surprising amount going on, and a revitalised space for which Haringey Council and the Friends of Ducketts Common must presumably take some credit. On Sunday a rap soundtrack and the smack of ball on tarmac came from the basketball courts (black, brown and white players together, a miniature antidote to the riots that have been filling the media lately). Elsewhere, a group of Middle Eastern- or Turkish-looking men were sitting on the grass in a circle around a pile of cash playing cards, and a little girl ran next to me as far as the playground gates (‘Is she bothering you?’ asked her father).

You can see thoughtful touches – the chunky logs placed around the perimeter (good for sitting on, running along, or trying to balance on for a Simone Biles impression). Half the park is ‘a wildlife area’, and the council's website mentions a 'wildflower meadow', which is somewhat creative with the truth, but the pigeons bathing and preening in a puddle didn’t mind. The outdoor gym was seeing some use and there were even some sunbathers.

The next day, Monday, the park had a different feel – fewer people on the benches and grass, some on work breaks and some perhaps not, Rizla papers and beer cans much in evidence. Litter had built up by Tuesday and I was not that impressed seeing someone urinating against a tree as I jogged past.

Use of London parks – the figures

So what are the figures on London park usage? How many people use them, and for what? Have visits to parks increased recently? I can find no statistics about visits to Ducketts Common itself from Haringey Council’s latest management report. However, a 2017 Yougov poll based on a survey of just over 1000 Londoners showed that 10% visit a park or green space every day, and 48% at least once a week. Only 9% never visit them.

More broadly, recent government figures show about 50% of people in England had visited urban parks, fields or playgrounds in the previous month, based on surveys of about 6000 people each quarter between April 2020-December 2023. This figure had remained stable since July 2020. (Strangely I could see no effect of lockdown on visits, though 4% fewer people visited between April and June 2020). According to these figures, urban green spaces were visited by about 20% more people than other natural spaces such as beaches, woodland and countryside.

What do people do in parks?

I couldn’t find any figures for what people do in parks, but according to these government figures by far the most popular activity in all green spaces (including other spaces such as beaches, mountains and rivers) was walking (including dog walking), with 71% of people surveyed saying they did this. Next most popular was wildlife watching (25%), followed by picnicking (14%) and playing with children (12%).

The personalities of parks

In my experience parks have varied characters, just like neighbourhoods. I’ve just visited Bushy Park near Hampton Court, which has wide tree-lined avenues, and abundant bracken which provides cover for the baby deer born each year. A far cry from Ducketts Common in size and landscape, but all part of what makes London a comparatively green city.

A red deer feeding in a river in Bushy Park

#69: Write Cut Rewrite exhibition

 

Write Cut Rewrite exhibition
Photo: Ian Wallman

‘Kill your darlings,’ enjoined Stephen King, advising writers to cut words which may have taken hours to develop. This exhibition of writers’ editing processes at the Bodleian’s Weston Library gives evidence of such murder through manuscripts, jottings and notebooks.

So what ‘darlings’ do we see here? Opening the exhibition is a twelfth century manuscript, The Ormulum, commenting on the Bible in early English. This is a literal cut and paste – one page trimmed to a third of its size, overlying another with almost every line heavily scored through. ‘For a notebook which is almost a thousand years old it looks surprisingly modern because it features so many crossed-out passages,’ says the label.

Yet why do crossed out passages look more modern than the finished product? Because they show a common human impulse to revise, with its hesitancy and changes of mind, in a way that the fixed final text does not? Doodles in Shelley’s notebook, displayed here, also seem strangely modern. Perhaps it is use of the pen rather than fixed type which makes them seem more human?

Also included are three wonderful sheets of witty lines kept in reserve by Raymond Chandler for his detective novels, ticked off in pencil after being used. Unused was ‘I left her with her virtue intact, but it was a struggle. She nearly won.’ I can imagine that in The Big Sleep. Another aide memoire is Philip Pullman’s list of Oxford colleges and the names he called them in his children’s books, e.g. All Souls becomes St Scholastica.

A list of witty lines kept by Raymond Chandler

Editing materials are important. Unlined notebooks show poet’s Alice Oswald swirling coloured sketches which she then tries to translate into words. Le Carré‘s drafts are handwritten, then typed up, then the typescript is cut up again and stapled between further handwritten parts. Fans of Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy can read a highly edited, handwritten opening in which Ricki Tarr tracks down fellow ex-spy Jim Prideaux to a school where he is teaching. But in the final book, they never meet. This is one ‘darling’ which was killed.

Sometimes little is edited – Alexander Pope’s Essay on Criticism has one A3 sized manuscript page with just one correction. Were his robust rhyming couplets a confident guide, so little revision was needed? One can also see him underlining words (which would be italicised in a modern addition), bringing out the oral qualities, like a musical score.

Pope's Essay on Criticism – left-hand page corrected, right hand page hardly at all

Pope's Essay on Criticism – left-hand page corrected, right hand page hardly at all

Electronic editing

And what of today’s untraceable electronic editing? This is covered by a digital display with ‘Cuttings’, a poem by Fanny Choi, where one can track the electronic editing process – ‘every keystroke, every pause, every typo, every half-developed idea later abandoned’.

Before going to the exhibition I had wondered whether a museum, which must preserve objects and halt time, could convey any of the fluency or even urgency of the editing process. It turns out that it can.

Corrections to Mary Shelley's Frankenstein

‘Write Cut Rewrite’ is at the Weston Library, Oxford, until 5 January 2025.