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Authors: Philip Palmer
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exhilarating. At first, I was under the spell of Newton; that powerful personality, that radiant intelligence. Scientist,
alchemist, thieftaker (now that’s a story for another day . . .), cheat, and bully. I loved him.
And yet later, of course, it was Newton’s nemesis Leibnitz who became the object of my fascination. Leibnitz, a German genius,
a philosopher, a mathematician, and, in the view of many of the finest minds in science, the original inventor and describer
of the principle of relativity. In his arcane and complex philosophy of monads, Leibnitz set out the basic principles of a
relativistic universe long
long
before Einstein.
However, after three heady years of reading primary sources and attempting to fathom the intricacies of calculus and mathematical
modelling, my priorities shifted. I had to get a job. The job I took wasn’t much different to my research work – I became
a research fellow in the college where I had previously been a DPhil student. But the horizons of my world shifted. I was
introduced to bureaucracy, university politics, and the entire microcosm of tedious make-work.
I had an office. I had a university email address. I bitched about the photocopier. I bitched about how many emails I had
to read. I sent emails bitching about how many emails I was receiving, and received back emails bitching about… you get
the idea. I attended course committee meetings, and I spent hours of my life assembling and stapling paperwork in order to
be prepared for meetings in which nothing of any substance was actually said.
I gave my heart and soul to the students and had my trust betrayed. I was mocked and belittled by fellow tutors. I was stuck
in lifts with men smelling of tweed and middle-aged women who spent their early mornings crazed in the company of cheap perfume.
I found myself, in my late twenties and early thirties, a dowdy spinster surrounded by bare-armed tattooed young female students
with lurid hair colours and pierced tongues. And I found myself unable to sexually desire the gorgeous male students who surrounded
me because I felt they were old enough to be my sons – even though they
weren’t
old enough, and I had no son.
It sucked away my soul. I think my skin became paler, and frecklier. And I proved to be, despite my academic smarts, a profound
nincompoop with regard to the ways of the world, always getting it wrong.
And so I became a college mouse. I held my own academically – I published papers on Newton’s theory of Optics, I wrote reviews
for specialist journals. But I had the reputation of being a dry stick, humourless and unimaginative.
My students didn’t like me much. They thought I was a relic from another age. I had the reputation of being a frigid spinster.
In fact, I did have sex, a few times, with some of my less repellent colleagues. But I treated it as a chore, an act designed
to thwart the stereotype about me which my every word and action served to confirm.
I felt like a character in a science fiction story, trapped in someone else’s body, articulating someone else’s words. To
be frank, I bored even myself. And by the time I was thirty-six, my course was set, my die stamped, I knew I would never change.
Then I published my life’s work, and everything changed.
It’s what I’d hoped for, of course. In my dreams, my masterly academic book was going to transform my reputation and my status.
In pursuit of this dream I worked long long hours, I read books on science and crime and history, I read novels, I absorbed
so much knowledge that I felt my own self was being swamped in information.
Most crucially, I became the supreme intellectual magpie – stealing ideas from here, there, and everywhere. And I was smart
enough also to realise that the most important area of modern scientific and philosophical thought was not computing or string
theory or postmodernism or chaos theory, but the new science
alchemist, thieftaker (now that’s a story for another day . . .), cheat, and bully. I loved him.
And yet later, of course, it was Newton’s nemesis Leibnitz who became the object of my fascination. Leibnitz, a German genius,
a philosopher, a mathematician, and, in the view of many of the finest minds in science, the original inventor and describer
of the principle of relativity. In his arcane and complex philosophy of monads, Leibnitz set out the basic principles of a
relativistic universe long
long
before Einstein.
However, after three heady years of reading primary sources and attempting to fathom the intricacies of calculus and mathematical
modelling, my priorities shifted. I had to get a job. The job I took wasn’t much different to my research work – I became
a research fellow in the college where I had previously been a DPhil student. But the horizons of my world shifted. I was
introduced to bureaucracy, university politics, and the entire microcosm of tedious make-work.
I had an office. I had a university email address. I bitched about the photocopier. I bitched about how many emails I had
to read. I sent emails bitching about how many emails I was receiving, and received back emails bitching about… you get
the idea. I attended course committee meetings, and I spent hours of my life assembling and stapling paperwork in order to
be prepared for meetings in which nothing of any substance was actually said.
I gave my heart and soul to the students and had my trust betrayed. I was mocked and belittled by fellow tutors. I was stuck
in lifts with men smelling of tweed and middle-aged women who spent their early mornings crazed in the company of cheap perfume.
I found myself, in my late twenties and early thirties, a dowdy spinster surrounded by bare-armed tattooed young female students
with lurid hair colours and pierced tongues. And I found myself unable to sexually desire the gorgeous male students who surrounded
me because I felt they were old enough to be my sons – even though they
weren’t
old enough, and I had no son.
It sucked away my soul. I think my skin became paler, and frecklier. And I proved to be, despite my academic smarts, a profound
nincompoop with regard to the ways of the world, always getting it wrong.
And so I became a college mouse. I held my own academically – I published papers on Newton’s theory of Optics, I wrote reviews
for specialist journals. But I had the reputation of being a dry stick, humourless and unimaginative.
My students didn’t like me much. They thought I was a relic from another age. I had the reputation of being a frigid spinster.
In fact, I did have sex, a few times, with some of my less repellent colleagues. But I treated it as a chore, an act designed
to thwart the stereotype about me which my every word and action served to confirm.
I felt like a character in a science fiction story, trapped in someone else’s body, articulating someone else’s words. To
be frank, I bored even myself. And by the time I was thirty-six, my course was set, my die stamped, I knew I would never change.
Then I published my life’s work, and everything changed.
It’s what I’d hoped for, of course. In my dreams, my masterly academic book was going to transform my reputation and my status.
In pursuit of this dream I worked long long hours, I read books on science and crime and history, I read novels, I absorbed
so much knowledge that I felt my own self was being swamped in information.
Most crucially, I became the supreme intellectual magpie – stealing ideas from here, there, and everywhere. And I was smart
enough also to realise that the most important area of modern scientific and philosophical thought was not computing or string
theory or postmodernism or chaos theory, but the new science
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