Non-controversially, the full version of this article argues that the crisis in British higher education will impoverish teaching and research in the arts and humanities; cut even more deeply into these areas in the post-1992 sector; and threaten the integrity of every small sub-discipline, including the history of medicine. It traces links between the Thatcherite reforms of the 1980s and the near-privatisation of universities proposed by the Browne Report and partly adopted by the coalition. The article ends by arguing that it would be mistaken to expect any government-driven return to the status quo ante. New ideas and solutions must come from within. As economic and cultural landscapes are transformed, higher education will eventually be rebuilt, and the arts and social sciences, including medical history, reshaped in wholly unexpected ways. This will only happen, however, if a more highly politicised academic community forges its own strategies for recovery.

The ‘death’ of the social history of medicine was predicated on two insights from postmodern thinking: first, that ‘the social’ was an essentialist category strategically fashioned in the course of the nineteenth and twentieth centuries; and second, that the disciplines of medicine and history-writing grew up together, the one (medicine) seeking to objectify the body, the other (history-writing) seeking to objectify the past. Not surprisingly, in the face of these revelations, historians of medicine retreated from the critical and ‘big-picture’ perspectives they entertained in the 1970s and 1980s. Their political flame went out, and doing the same old thing increasingly looked more like an apology for, than a critical inquiry into, medicine and its humanist project. Unable to face the present, let alone the future, they retreated from both, suffering the same paralysis of will as other historians stymied by the intellectual movement of postmodernism. Ironically, this occurred (occurs) at a moment when ‘medicine’ – writ large to include the biosciences and biotechnology – could easily be said to be the most relevant and compelling subject for understanding contemporary life and politics (global, local, and individual) and, as such, the place to justify the practice of history-writing as a whole. God knows, legitimacy has never been more urgent. But how can this be effected? Political action seems more likely than prayer. But let us begin by reviewing the nature of the problem that demands this response.

In their critical paper on images in the health sciences, Roger Cooter and Claudia Stein pointed out the limits of visualisation and representation in the existing literature in the public representation of health and illness. They focus on the complex and multilayered field of medical representations as the site where levels of epistemic, philosophical and political presuppositions provide insight into the interpreter's historical position. From a close focus on medical (or even public health) representations as a reflection of a partial worldview, to the historical embeddedness that they suggest is the key to understanding the limitations of all visual hermeneutics in the sphere of health and illness:

Historians of medicine are often gloomily familiar with clinicians' incursions into their intellectual arena. We physicians offer hagiographic biographies of obscure nineteenth-century medical figures, triumphalist narratives of medical progress and – the most heinous offence – retrospective diagnosis of ailments afflicting historical characters. But clinicians have also offered some excellent insights to the discipline. As a medical practitioner, I intend to argue that clinical insight can be valuable; not in providing answers – here, clinicians' contemporary interpretations of disease and its treatment can lead us to become unstuck – but in raising questions which might not occur to historians.

This paper was originally written for a conference entitled ‘The Future of Medical History. Now it ought to be clear – certainly to historians – that the future of anything is hard to predict; but at least in the short term, any future for medical history seems likely to include the history of disease, and the history of coronary heart disease (CHD) provides an excellent example of what the history of disease has to offer to a wide range of audiences.

This article examines one of the long-term structural forces that contributed to the making of public health in Modern Japan. My overall argument is that the history of public health should be conceived as a total history, encompassing not just political, administrative, and scientific factors but also natural, social, and economic factors. Elsewhere I have discussed two of these factors in some detail, both of which were long-term structural forces resulting from the interactions of different realms: 1) the effect of the topography and the pattern of the use of land; and 2) the effect of the market as a medium for people's behaviour seeking the prevention of the disease. Here I will argue that the Japanese long-term experience of diseases provided another structural force that shaped public health in Japan. The long-term cumulative factor can be called the ‘epidemiological heritage’ of Japan.

In recent years, intellectual property in medicine has generated much debate, becoming one of the most significant issues in modern day medical ethics and linking in with wider discussions about the commercialisation of medicine and the commodification of the human body. Recent high-profile cases in the USA have centred on gene patenting, that having been enthusiastically practised by universities and biotechnology companies, is now having its legality questioned. The unexpected March 2010 ruling of a federal court against Myriad Genetics, which invalidated the company's patents on the BRCA1 and BRCA2 genes, has highlighted the complexities that now govern the ethical and legal tenure of asserting property rights over biological material.

Over the last few years my research has focused on representations of the injured body and face in First World War Britain. Some of the most intriguing cases are those in which art and medicine seem to converge or redefine each other, as in Henry Tonks' delicate pastel portraits of British servicemen with severe facial injuries, and the equally exquisite – and unsettling – prosthetic masks made by the sculptor Francis Derwent Wood for some of these patients to conceal their disfigurement when surgical reconstruction was impossible. In both of these examples, art could be said to ameliorate – and in different ways to aestheticise – the horrors of war, and to humanise men who had suffered what were considered at the time to be the most dehumanising of injuries. In both cases, the sources that have survived contain assumptions – often unspoken – about how, where and by whom the injured body may be seen – assumptions that have changed over time. My current project considers the afterlives of some of these documents. When we encounter medical images in art galleries or on television – or in the pages of an academic journal – what kind of cultural and imaginative work do they perform? Are there ethical considerations raised by their re-deployment or appropriation within the contexts of art and entertainment, education and academic research?

In April 2009, Sir David Attenborough, the respected face and voice of British natural history programmes for more than fifty years, became the patron of a new charity, the Optimum Population Trust (OPT), an organisation campaigning to limit the world's population. His reason for accepting the honour, he confessed to The Times, was that he was terribly worried about the dramatic increase of the world's population and the effect it was having on the quality of human life throughout the world:

There are three times as many people in the world as when I started making television programmes only a mere fifty-six years ago. It is frightening. We can't go on as we have been. We are seeing the consequences in terms of ecology, atmospheric pollution and in terms of the space and food production.

This article is drawn from a doctoral thesis called ‘Governing Public Bodies: Reconsidering the Relationship Between Statecraft and Healthcare in England, 1650–1730’, which considers two things: how certain categories of person, certain subjectivities, have been assembled through government in the name of health; and how the health of the individual has been understood to relate to that of the collective.

Recent historical investigation into the rise of ‘biopolitical modernity’ in China has shed some surprising light. While it was long thought that British public health initiatives entered China via Hong Kong, the recent work of Ruth Rogaski, Philippe Chemouilli and others has established that it was actually early Japanese colonialism that played the crucial role. It was the Meiji Empire's hygiene reform projects in Taiwan and Manchuria that provided the model for Republican China. Curiously overlooked by medical historians has been one of the major early works of Japanese public health that directly inspired and guided this colonial medical enterprise. This was that of the Japanese health reformer and colonial officer, Gotō Shinpei (1857–1929), and it was undertaken in Munich as a doctoral thesis under the supervision of Max von Pettenkofer. In this article, I focus on the way in which Shinpei dealt in his thesis with the relations between centralisation and local self-administration as one of the key issues facing hygienic modernisation and colonial biopolitical control.

This article explores crossovers from Eastern philosophy and spirituality to contemporary science and medicine in the West. My interest is not so much in specific lines of historical transmission, as in the channels through which they flow. In particular, my argument is that different ontologies – visions of how the world is – either facilitate or block such exchanges. As an example, think about physics. The ontology of mainstream physics is a modern, dualist one, inasmuch as physical thought revolves around a material world from which anything human is absent, and the human leftovers fall to the humanities and social sciences. This ontology, more or less by definition, blocks any resonance with Eastern ideas or practices, and, accordingly, they are almost entirely absent from the history of physics, except, importantly, in lines of work on the foundations of physics, especially quantum mechanics. If one meditates on the Heisenberg uncertainty principle, for instance, boundaries between the observer and the observed start to unravel, the dualist ontology erodes, and there, indeed, one finds all sorts of resonances with the East, as elaborated in an endless list of books that includes, for example, The Tao of Physics and The Dancing Wu Li Masters. That is my basic idea: resonances with the East spring forth in Western science whenever modern dualism starts to fray around the edges. But this essay is not about physics, and I turn now to the post-war history of cybernetics in Britain and its rather different non-modern ontology.

While some historians have noted the absence of animals in medical history, few have made the animal the central object of their historical gaze. Twenty years ago W.F. Bynum urged medical historians to follow historians of science in paying attention to the role of non-human animals in the material practices of medicine. Yet few have responded to his call. In this paper we again ask the question: what work can the non-human animal achieve for the history of medicine? We do so in the light of the conceptual possibilities opened up by the rapidly emerging field of ‘animal studies’. This interdisciplinary and sophisticated body of work has, in various ways, revealed the value of the ‘animal’ as a tool for exploring the co-constitution of species identity. We asked ourselves, surely, in our present biomedical world, this must be an area that we as medical historians are best placed to comment on; and what better place to start than the well-known, yet surprisingly little-studied, medical leech?

The historical development and economic impact of pharmaceuticals in the UK are nowadays reasonably well documented. That industry has become the most profitable and fast growing of the country's high-tech industries. Its member firms undertake more than one-fifth of the national research and development (R&D) activities, one half being carried out in Britain, and currently achieve a £2.4 billion favourable trade balance with the rest of the world.

In recent years there has been increasing interest in the role of animals in science and medicine. While historians have tended to focus on the processes of standardisation, increasing attention is being given to the surprising and unexpected elements of the model organism. Experimental organisms are, simultaneously, both artefacts and samples of nature. Rachel Ankeny and Sabina Leonelli put it clearly and succinctly: ‘they are systems that have been engineered and modified to enable the controlled investigation of specific phenomena, yet at the same time they remain largely mysterious products of millennia of evolution, whose behaviours, structures, and physiology are for the most part still relatively ill-understood by scientists.’ In continuously generating new questions, organisms provide novelty so essential to successful experimental systems. They are, as Hans-Jörg Rheinberger would argue, scientific objects or ‘epistemic things’, not merely predictable ‘technical objects’.

Sometime between the late 1960s and the early 1970s, a ‘Monsieur Jourdain syndrome’ seems to have spread among basic researchers and clinicians in fields as diverse as neurology, psychology, psychiatry, behavioural studies, physiology, biochemistry and pharmacology. Almost overnight, they realised that they were but neuroscientists.

Self-inflicted injury, or ‘self-harm’, has been a topic of much debate in recent years. The media in the Western world has tended to portray the issue as an increasing ‘trend’, relating it to various contemporary concerns, including the so-called ‘celebrity culture’ and urban decline. The past decade in the UK has seen the publication of various clinical guidelines, a National Inquiry into Self-Harm in young people, and almost continual media speculation. In the last two decades of the nineteenth century, speculation also occurred around ‘self-mutilation’, an area newly defined by alienists (asylum psychiatrists). This topic has received little historical attention; yet, had ‘self-harm’ been on the agenda in the 1970s and '80s, nineteenth-century self-mutilation would no doubt have been presented as part of a discourse on professionalisation, in which the creation of a new psychiatric category was presented as part of the ‘medicalisation’ of psychiatry, through observation and classification within asylums. More recently, a changing historiography has led to histories of self-harm being located within a schema for ‘making up’ people, such as attention to the development of a patient profile for the apparently new behaviour of ‘delicate self cutting’ in the mid-twentieth century. This article builds on this concept to explore broader social issues around the creation of the concept of ‘self-mutilation’, which help to explain the occurrence of an impetus for ‘making up people’ in a particular period or culture. In particular, the impetus is related here to changing ideas of what constituted the ‘self’ and the relation of the individual to society in the late nineteenth century.

The English music theorist and philosophical writer Edmund Gurney was the first ‘fulltime’ psychical researcher in history. While he was primarily concerned with empirical evidence for telepathy, Gurney significantly contributed to the late nineteenth-century literature on hallucinations in the sane, and the psychology of hypnotism and dissociation. He conducted the first large-scale survey of hallucinations in the general public and, with Pierre Janet, was the first to publish experimental data suggesting dissociated streams of consciousness in hypnotism. This paper sketches Gurney's contributions to psychology and dynamic psychiatry in the context of his friendship with Frederic W.H. Myers and William James. It is argued that although Gurney's research into hallucinations and hypnotism had been embraced and assimilated by contemporary psychologists such as William James, Alfred Binet and others, his contributions to psychology have subsequently been marginalised because of the discipline's paradigmatic rejection of controversial research questions his findings were entangled with.

William James is often described as one of America's foremost philosophers and the founder of American psychology. During the second half of the nineteenth century and the first decade of the twentieth century he published several key texts on a broad range of topics, including the psychology of religion, ethics, epistemology and metaphysics. Many are still in current use, and contemporary philosophers continue to pore over them. Biographers, meanwhile, happily speculate on everything from James's parental relationships to the state of his marriage. However, there has been relatively little detailed exploration of how James's published writings and his private life may have intersected. This article explores one such intersection: that between James's protracted experience of ill health and the elaboration of the notion of evil in his writings.