Research for the PhD will focus on one of two areas, either

a)      the representation of everyday Medicine and/or Health in 20^th or 21^st century cultural narratives, especially those in literature and/or film;

or

b)      A study of the role of literature (or literature and film) in an aspect of therapy.

Possible topics within these areas include mental health; clinical care and the relationship between doctor and patient in narrative, with research ideally investigating  aspects of working in health care/clincial settings, accessing health practitioners and patients.

For Home/EU students the fees are met by the School of English, with successful candidates receiving an annual grant of approximately £8,000.

Full details concerning the PhD can be found here.

University of Leeds offering a PhD that links humanities and literature with medicine indicates the growing trend of academics going beyond just researching the cultural impact of artistic and literary works. The Reader Organisation Trustee Professor Phil Davis has been bringing science and the arts together by studying the effects of Shakespeare on the human brain, analysing neurological responses to the great bard.

Hopefully research arising from the PhD at Leeds will provide even more support for the idea that reading fictional literature and classics can have a positive effect on wellbeing, and can be utilised in clinical settings to help people receiving treatment in areas of mental health, ageing and physical health.

Our ongoing evaluation of Get Into Reading has shown that humanities – in this case fiction – can have a positive effect on health and wellbeing. In these surveys readers have said that they felt more able to relax, cope with stress and gained more positive feelings about life following Get Into Reading participation.

As well as community groups we have Get Into Reading programmes based in dementia care homes and groups for people with mental health or addiction difficulties, all aiming to use reading as a positive force in these people’s lives. Any research investigating the relationship between humanities and wellbeing is welcomed by The Reader Organisation as the evidence base for our work expands.

Night appeared to arrive earlier last night. At 10.05pm I was nearing the end of a long phone conversation which had began over an hour earlier when the sun was still up. Spookily my friend on the other end of the line and I remarked at the same time that it had become night-time without our realising. I remembered at that point that Summer Solstice was last week. This ‘event’ in the calendar always triggers a month or so of remarks from friends and family who notice on different days that the nights are drawing in.

June 21st is the 172nd day of the year (thank you Wikipedia), meaning that today (July 2nd) there’s 182 days left until 2011.

There may be an exact scientific date on which to pin winter’s approach, and that day may arrive every year, but personal experience of the Solstice belies regularity and reliability. Yet, though I know this, I am forever stating with self-assured conviction that today it went dark x minutes earlier than yesterday. I can never remember having officially registered at what time darkness fell on a previous night, yet today I always claim I know (intuitively or delusionally?) that it went dark yesterday exactly x minutes later than today. It’s a strange thing: attempting to understand the world via a seemingly incongruous mix of objective scientific fact, ‘intuition’ (perhaps the work of one’s body clock), and fallible memory (conscious and / or subconscious: wherever the line may be).

I like this image: pretty random. But its landscape sets the scene for the following extract from Virginia Woolf’s To the Lighthouse,

But what after all is one night? A short space, especially when the darkness dims so soon, and so soon a bird sings, a cock crows, or a faint green quickens, like a turning leaf, in the hollow of the wave. Night, however, succeeds to night. The winter holds a pack of them in store and deals them equally, they darken. Some of them hold aloft clear planets, plates of brightness. The autumn trees, ravaged as they are, take on the flash of tattered flags kindling in the gloom of cool cathedral caves where gold letters on marble pages describe death in battle and how bones bleach and burn far away in Indian sands. The autumn trees gleam in the yellow moonlight, in the light of harvest moons, the light which mellows the energy of labour, and smooths the stubble, and brings the wave lapping blue to the shore.

Mrs Ramsay ponders the rolling on of winter nights in the aptly titled chapter ‘Time Passes’.

Professor Raymond Tallis (Visiting Professor, School of English)  will give a lecture entitled ‘Literature, Language and Human Consciousness: One Reader’s Report’ on Wednesday 10th March at 2.30 p.m. in the Leggate Theatre, Victoria Gallery and Museum, University of Liverpool (followed by a drinks reception).

Raymond Tallis is a philosopher, poet, novelist and cultural critic, and until recently was a physician and clinical scientist.  He was listed in the Economist’s Intelligent Life magazine  (Autumn 2009) as one of the top living polymaths in the world.

ALL WELCOME. Please contact Cathy Rees, School of English (reescm@liverpool.ac.uk) if you plan to attend the lecture.

Jonah Lehrer is a contributing editor at Wired. He’s also written for The New Yorker, Seed, Nature, the Boston Globe and is a contributor to Radio Lab. He’s the author of Proust Was A Neuroscientist. His new book is How We Decide.

The researchers, led by neuroscientist Manuel Carreiras, recruited a group of ex-paramilitaries who could read less than five simple words on a Spanish reading and writing test, and compared them to a similar group who learnt to read and write from an early age.

The research team use MRI scans to compare differences in brain structure between the two groups to allow an insight into how brain anatomy changes to accommodate reading and writing.

While it is possible to do this with children, it is almost impossible to separate out which are the brain changes due specifically to acquiring literacy and which are just part of the massive changes that constantly take place as children develop.

Here’s the link.

Posted by Chris Routledge

The 28 study participants […] spent about 10 minutes reading four narratives, each less than 1,500 words, taken from the book “One Boy’s Day.” The words from the book were flashed onto a screen that the participants could read on a mirror in front of their faces.

[…]The researchers coded the four narratives for six types of changes “that people might be monitoring while they’re comprehending” — changes they would notice both in everyday life and possibly in reading, Zacks said. These changes included: spatial changes (when a location changed); object changes (when a character picked up a ball, say); character changes; causal changes (when an activity occurs that wasn’t directly caused by the activity in a previous clause); and goal changes (when a character begins an action with a new goal).

Monitoring such changes in the environment is adaptive, because it likely helped our ancestors to predict what might happen next: where prey might dart to next or what a predator might do. Similarly, today it helps us predict what might happen next in a story.

In other words, “reading a simple verb such as “run” or “kick” activates some of the same regions of the brain that would be activated when we actually go running or kick a ball.”

The Guardian published a related article back in January, which you can read by following this link.

I want to read a book of thinking about ‘community’.

I mean, by those inverted commas, something like a particular take on community: how people can be together, or why they do, or why it is in our DNA (is it?) and why the word has so much in the way of  religous overtones… and is ‘community’ always  semi-religous? I’d like it to be a thought-book rather than fiction… but I’m not very good at reading heavy duty philosophy.

I’d be happy if it was old… if it was great… but I’ll take what you got.  Reading lists please.

Phil and I discussed the likelihood of the end of the world before breakfast on Wednesday morning. What if the CERN scientists were wrong and the collider bang did cause a new cosmos to burst out of the ruins of our old one? And what if that kept happening over and over again in a weird 14 billion year loop? We get this far and they say nothing much’ll happen and then they collide the particles and BANG! Up we go again. 

I waited around until 8.00am (when Phil assured me it had happened ‘and everything seems ok.’) Then I set off for The Reader Organisation office, listening, en route, to the Today programme on Radio 4 where (after we heard of the Cabinet having been to Birmingham: wonders, wonders, signs and wonders) we got Andrew Marr in the Control Room at CERN. It was a magnificent piece of radio. Everything seemed so very tentative yet also mildly possible, like the early days of Tim Henman’s Wimbledon career. Something just might be about to happen: something for which we have been waiting for thirty years. We were all cheering. But we realised, too, in our hearts, that maybe it wouldn’t happen. But then perhaps it might. Let’s cheer. Let’s hope it will. Let’s hope. The scientists (as they each spoke they turned out to be a wonderful mix of Ulster, Welsh, English and French) might just manage to bring off what was being billed as the most important scientific experiment since the early Apollo programme.

Which was what it reminded me of as I sat in my traffic jam and listened. Did I really sit on a parquet floor in a primary school assembly hall with 200 other under-11’s and watch ‘one small step for man…?’  I think I did but it is all so long ago… Life is long. And very short. I listened to what Marr called ‘the atmosphere so tense you could it with a … laser beam’ and I could see the grainy black and white pictures, and hear my grandfather mocking ‘It’s all in a studio! The Yanks have mocked it up! It’s anti-Communist propaganda!’

Later Andrew Marr wondered if Big Bang day would get kids fired up about physics. I think, despite my grandfather’s perfectly reasonable doubts, that it was the Apollo programme that got me interested in Science Fiction. I couldn’t get interested in real science because of the maths or rather my paralysing fearful innumeracy but I did read John Wyndham aged about 11, finishing The Day of the Triffids by torchlight way into the night because I simply could not stop reading and then it went on: Arthur C. Clarke, Robert A. Heinlein, Robert Silverberg. Until at some point I got bored. Later, Joanna Russ and Ursula K. le Guin resurrected my old SF interest when, in my early twenties I went through a period of reading only women but after that I forgot all about my early love, until Doris Lessing introduced me (via ‘Some Remarks’ at the beginning of Shikasta) to the biggest daddy of all Sci Fi books: Last and First Men, by Olaf Stapledon. 

For Big Bang Day, Big Bang Week, Big Bang Year, this is the man to read. He is the biggest. Cosmology? Infinity?  He’s got it by the billion squared. He tells our human story from the primordial soup days to the way past the end of the our universe, and many other universes.

But he doesn’t think of it as Science Fiction, just fiction. In the Preface to the 1930 edition, Stapledon writes:

This is a work of fiction. I have tried to invent a story which may seem a possible, or at least not wholly impossible, account of the future of man; and I have tried to make that story relevant to the change that is taking place today in man’s outlook.

To romance of the future may seem to be indulgence in ungoverned speculation for the sake of the marvellous. Yet controlled imagination in this sphere can be a very valuable exercise for minds bewildered about the present and its potentialities. Today we should welcome, and even study, every serious attempt to envisage the future of our race; not merely in order to grasp the very diverse and often tragic possibilities that confront us, but also that we may familiarize ourselves with the certainty that many of our most cherished ideals would seem puerile to more developed minds. To romance of the far future, then, is to attempt to see the human race in its cosmic setting, and to mould our hearts to entertain new values.

…The activity that we are undertaking is not science, but art; and the effect that it should have on the reader is the effect that art should have.

‘The human race in its cosmic setting.’ I loved that – the enormous size of it.  

It was an amazingly lucky stroke for me as a young post-grad to discover that Olaf Stapledon–despite his exotic northern name–had been a lecturer in the Extension Studies programme at the University of Liverpool. Not only that, but all his papers had been donated to our very own Sydney Jones Library. Not only that, but they had not (I’m talking 1983) yet been catalogued. Not only that, but when I arrived breathless with excitement in SJL Special Collections, some of them hadn’t even been lifted out of the original, dusty, old cardboard boxes Olaf himself (probably) packed them into before carrying up to his attic. Some of the boxes had string round them. I undid it, thinking: he tied this careful knot.

Reading through that stuff (almost all of it totally unrelated to my PhD thesis) was an experience of immense magnitude. It was like getting involved with a ghost. There he was–everywhere and in all sorts of ways–but I couldn’t see him or touch him, though I could sense him, feel him and hear him but then I couldn’t quite feel him or hear him. Yet he was in my mind. I knew him. 

One day I found a letter, hand typed on one of those old sit up and beg typewriters, from H. G. Wells, and there was H. G. Wells’ signature in heavy ink, and (as I remember it) it was a kind letter, praising (was it? My memory isn’t too good) Last and First Men but not praising it with huge generosity and, I think, a little egotistically drawing Stapledon’s attention to something Wells had himself recently published or written. I remember it as being on hotel notepaper. It was a wonderful moment, holding it, with the box in front of me, and no one telling me not to touch it. Two great giants of Sci Fi seemed before my eyes. Yes, I think I saw them. Both dead, they were in some sense present. 

There’s an awful lot we can’t see. Think of all that dark matter: we don’t even know what it is, only that it is most of what’s here. Three cheers for the particle colliders then and for more people taking ‘A-level’ physics. They are going bring a little more of that darkness into the light.

Posted by Jane Davis