The lives of scientists, considered as Lives, almost always make dull reading. For one thing, the careers of the famous and the merely ordinary fall into much the same pattern, give or take an honorary degree or two, or (in European countries) an honorific order. It could hardly be otherwise. Academics can only seldom lead lives that are spacious or exciting in a worldly sense. They need laboratories or libraries and the company of other academics. Their work is in no way made deeper or more cogent by privation, distress or worldly buffetings. Their private lives may be unhappy, strangely mixed up or comic, but not in ways that tell us anything special about the nature or direction of their work. Academics lie outside the devastation area of the literary convention according to which the lives of artists and men of letters are intrinsically interesting, a source of cultural insight in themselves. If a scientist were to cut his ear off, no one would take it as evidence of a heightened sensibility; if a historian were to fail (as Ruskin did) to consummate his marriage, we should not suppose that our understanding of historical scholarship had somehow been enriched.
The lives of writers, however, are thought to give out a low rumble of cultural portents. One day in the summer of 1968The Times of London devoted a whole column on its front page to new discoveries about the circumstances under which Joseph Conrad came to be discharged by the captain of the Riversdale, in which he was serving as first mate -- discoveries described as 'extremely important' for the understanding of Conrad and his art, because traces of the incident are to be discerned in Conrad's fiction. (But