As for my presentation on the place of fiction in bioethics, well, suffice it to say the listening bioethicists didn’t eat me alive. But their minds are definitely on a more exalted plane than mine. They tease out words and ideas and just revel in arguments about what exactly constitutes bioethics; who’s in the circle, who’s out; whether it’s right or wrong to have cctv monitoring or assisted suicide or films giving only part of the picture on one of life’s big questions; what exactly Aristotle was getting at; whether artists should be allowed to shock people … all good exercise for my little grey cells. Just this once! You can read all about it if you’re interested.

The fact that we all see the world in different ways depending on where we stand and how observant and sensitive we are to different things was summed up nicely in this poem by John Godfrey Saxe:

Image Jumbo by Piet Grobler from Flickr used under Creative Commons

It was six men of Indostan
To learning much inclined,
Who went to see the Elephant
(Though all of them were blind),
That each by observation
Might satisfy his mind.

The First approached the Elephant
And happening to fall
Against his broad and sturdy side,
At once began to bawl:
‘God bless me! but the Elephant
Is like a very wall!’

The Second, feeling of the tusk,
Cried, ‘Ho, what have we here
So very round and smooth and sharp?
To me ’tis mighty clear
This wonder of an Elephant
Is very like a spear!’

The Third approached the animal,
And happening to take
The squirming trunk within his hands,
Thus boldly up and spake
‘I see,’ quote he, ‘the Elephant
Is very like a snake!’

The Fourth reached out an eager hand
And felt about the knee.
‘What most this wondrous beast is like
Is mighty plain,’ quoth he;
’Tis clear enough the Elephant
Is very like a tree!’

The Fifth, who chanced to touch the ear,
Said, ‘E’en the blindest man
Can tell what this resembles most;
Deny the fact who can.
This marvel of an Elephant
Is very like a fan!’

The Sixth no sooner had begun
About the beast to grope,
Than, seizing on the swinging tail
That fell within his scope,
‘I see,’ quoth he, ‘the Elephant
Is very like a rope!’

And so these men of Indostan
Disputed loud and long,
Each in his own opinion
Exceeding stiff and strong,
Though each was partly in the right,
And all were in the wrong!

So oft in theologic* wars,
The disputants, I ween,
Rail on in utter ignorance
Of what each other mean
And prate about an Elephant
Not one of them has seen!

*substitute bioethic or scientific or moralistic or whatever. Because the moral applies to all of us in one context or another, doesn’t it?

Hey ho, I return more than ever humbled by my own ignorance. And I confess, relieved to have that experience safely behind me. I can now bend my mind to other things … like family problems in Devon, so I’m off down there for the rest of the week. It takes a full day on the train each way, which means at least two books ticked off my still-to-read list – other people’s mobile phones and conversations permitting. I’m taking February by Lisa Moore and Dead Tomorrow by Peter James. An unexpected bonus. They’ve been tempting me for some time.

But who can blame him? Imagine the pressure after you’ve created a masterpiece. How can another book possible live up to expectation – the author’s, never mind the public’s. A lot to be said for quitting while you’re ahead, leaving people thinking you’re unassailable. As in, keep your mouth shut; if you open it people will know how little you know.

But his reclusiveness strikes a chord with me. Especially this week. Writing is a solitary occupation. And letting your own creativity out into the cruel world is daunting. There’s a measure of safety hiding yourself and your work away from outside scrutiny. Why am I feeling this especially this week? I’ve been preparing to go to Manchester on Monday to give a talk about the place of fiction in the future of bioethics and I confess, I’m finding the prospect daunting. Why? Hard to say. After all, it’s all about what I do every day.

First, I guess it’s because, who knows where the goalposts are with fiction? I never had these anxieties talking about my research when I was a university researcher trotting round the globe.

Second, with the creative arts, doing it and talking about it are two different things. A touch of the those-who-can-do, those-who-can’t-teach syndrome, maybe? Or is it to do with how we communicate? It’s been said that writers write because they can’t fully convey what they want to any other way. Including verbally. We spend hours agonising over the minutiae of the written word, but you can never be sure what you say will come out exactly as you intended it. And just how you say something matters hugely – especially to an audience of bioethicists and philosophers. Help!!

Whatever the explanation I’m in sympathy with JD Salinger today.

Maybe the snow that’s started again this week will effectively close all transport to England on Monday …