domingo, 30 de marzo de 2014

Percy Shelley



Alas! This Is Not What I Thought Life Was

Alas! this is not what I thought life was.
I knew that there were crimes and evil men,
Misery and hate; nor did I hope to pass
Untouched by suffering, through the rugged glen.
In mine own heart I saw as in a glass 
The hearts of others ... And when
I went among my kind, with triple brass
Of calm endurance my weak breast I armed,
To bear scorn, fear, and hate, a woful mass! 

Tomás Cullen

La conmovedora carta de un joven de 23 años que lucha contra el cáncer

En el Día Mundial contra esta enfermedad, Tomás Cullen cuenta a LA NACION su lucha y sus reflexiones sobre la vida; "es una mochila pesada, podés cargarla solo o podés dividir el peso entre varios"

El milagro de la vida
El 6 de diciembre me operaron de un tumor, que resultó ser no seminomatoso maligno con metástasis en los pulmones y en otras partes del cuerpo, y me indicaron un tratamiento de quimioterapia. Averigüé un poco más y supe de mucha gente que se niega a realizar el tratamiento por lo agresivo que es para el cuerpo. Al principio no lo entendí -es como suicidarse por miedo a morir- pero con el tiempo pude hacerlo. La quimioterapia es algo así como "el remedio peor que la enfermedad", por el estado en que deja al paciente. Y nadie garantiza óptimos resultados. Sería más fácil dejarlo todo, pero la realidad es que la muerte no es lo contrario de la vida, sino que es parte de ella. Cuando te dicen que tu vida es una probabilidad, que tenés un porcentaje de posibilidades de curarte, te das cuenta de un montón de cosas. Al hablar con la gente o ver la televisión, ves y escuchás una sarta de cosas sin sentido, de lo mucho que la gente sufre por lo que le falta y de lo poco que disfruta lo mucho que tiene. Se empieza a ver todo con otros ojos. Alguna vez escuché que hay dos maneras de vivir la vida: una, como si nada fuera un milagro; la otra, como si todo fuera un milagro. Realmente soy testigo de que muchas personas no viven, sólo existen. Pero entre tanta decepción veo en amigos, familia, médicos y enfermeras a quienes -y son muchos- te ayudan a concentrar la vida en un solo momento. El cáncer es una mochila pesada. Podés cargarla solo y difícilmente te cures, o podés dividir el peso entre varios y, aunque te toque la parte más pesada, hacerlo más fácil.
Hoy es el Día Mundial de la Lucha contra el Cáncer. Si bien esta enfermedad es una de las principales causas de muerte en todo el mundo, mientras exista podemos tomar conciencia de la vida, para hacer pie en lo real y mejorar como sociedad, aunque sea desde la perspectiva de la muerte.
Tomás Cullen

SU HISTORIA

Tomás tiene 23 años, es hijo de Tomás Cullen y Verónica Middleton, y es el segundo de cuatro hermanos con quienes vive en la zona de San Isidro. El 9 de noviembre último sintió un dolor abdominal y fue a la guardia de un sanatorio cerca de su casa. Le dieron un antibiótico y le dijeron que esté tranquilo, que no era un tumor, porque los tumores no duelen . Tomás contó a LA NACION que inmediatamente que le dijeron eso dejó de sentir dolor y una semana más tarde un análisis confirmaba su sospecha inconsciente.
La operación llegó rápido y el 7 de diciembre, un día después de la intervención quirúrgica, se puso a estudiar para rendir los exámenes de cuarto año de la carrera de Ingeniería Civil que cursa en la Universidad Católica Argentina con óptimos resultados académicos.
De a poco comprendió que quizá eso no iba a ser posible por ahora. Su tratamiento de quimioterapia está proyectado para concluir en abril, así que optó por cambiar los libros por un poco de actividad física moderada, que practica los días alejados a su internación de tres noches que realiza para curarse.
A veces Tomás se despierta y cree que tuvo una pesadilla, pero inmediatamente se toca su cabeza rapada y advierte que no es un sueño sino la más cruel de las realidades que le tocó vivir. Pero no está solo en esto, en lo de Cullen hay varias cabezas rapadas, la de hermanos y primos que lo acompañan con el estilo rasurado.
Tomás tiene el apoyo incondicional de su familia, fe para pedirle a Dios la cura y la posibilidad de hacer el tratamiento adecuado. Sólo le resta hacerse la idea de que se va a curar y lo va a lograr.
Camila M. Solito.

viernes, 28 de marzo de 2014

What we still don´t know


MARK O'BRIEN

On Seeing A Sex Surrogate

by MARK O'BRIEN
MARK O’BRIEN was a poet and journalist who lived in Berkeley, California. After contracting polio at the age of six, he spent most of his life in an iron lung. In 2012 Fox Searchlight Pictures released The Sessions, a film adapted from O’Brien’s essay “On Seeing A Sex Surrogate,” about having sex for the first time at the age of thirty-six. He is also the subject of the 1996 Academy Award–winning documentary Breathing Lessons. His work has appeared in The San Francisco Chronicle and Whole Earth Review. He died in July 1999 from post-polio syndrome.
In 1983, I wrote an article about sex and disabled people. In interviewing sexually active men and women, I felt removed, as though I were an anthropologist interviewing headhunters while endeavoring to maintain the value-neutral stance of a social scientist. Being disabled myself, but also being a virgin, I envied these people ferociously. It took me years to discover that what separated me from them was fear — fear of others, fear of making decisions, fear of my own sexuality, and a surpassing dread of my parents. Even though I no longer lived with them, I continued to live with a sense of their unrelenting presence, and their disapproval of sexuality in general, mine in particular. In my imagination, they seemed to have an uncanny ability to know what I was thinking, and were eager to punish me for any malfeasance.
Whenever I had sexual feelings or thoughts, I felt accused and guilty. No one in my family had ever discussed sex around me. The attitude I absorbed was not so much that polite people never thought about sex, but that no one did. I didn’t know anyone outside my family, so this code affected me strongly, convincing me that people should emulate the wholesome asexuality of Barbie and Ken, that we should behave as though we had no “down there’s” down there.
As a man in my thirties, I still felt embarrassed by my sexuality. It seemed to be utterly without purpose in my life, except to mortify me when I became aroused during bed baths. I would not talk to my attendants about the orgasms I had then, or the profound shame I felt. I imagined they, too, hated me for becoming so excited.
I wanted to be loved. I wanted to be held, caressed, and valued. But my self-hatred and fear were too intense.
I doubted I deserved to be loved. My frustrated sexual feelings seemed to be just another curse inflicted upon me by a cruel God.
I had fallen in love with several people, female and male, and waited for them to ask me out or seduce me. Most of the disabled people I knew in Berkeley were sexually active, including disabled people as deformed as I. But nothing ever happened. Nothing was working for me in the passive way that I wanted it to, the way it works in the movies.
In 1985, I began talking with Sondra, my therapist, about the possibility of seeing a sex surrogate. When Sondra had originally mentioned the idea — explaining that a sexual therapist worked with a client’s emotional problems concerning sex, while a surrogate worked with a client’s body — I had been too afraid to discuss it. I rationalized that someone who was not an attendant, nurse, or doctor would be horrified at seeing my pale, thin body with its bent spine, bent neck, washboard ribcage, and hipbones protruding like outriggers. I also dismissed the idea of a surrogate because of the expense. A few years earlier, I had phoned a sex surrogate at the suggestion of another therapist. The surrogate told me that she charged according to a sliding scale that began at seventy dollars an hour.
But now my situation had changed. I was earning extra money writing articles and book reviews. My rationalizations began to strike me as flimsy.
Still, it was not an easy decision. What would my parents think? What would God think? I suspected that my father and mother would know even before God did if I saw a surrogate. The prospect of offending three such omniscient beings made me nervous.
Sondra never pushed me one way or another; she told me the choice was mine. She gave me the phone number for the Center on Sexuality and Disability at the University of California in San Francisco. I fretted over whether I would call; whether I would call and immediately hang up; whether I would ever do anything important on my own. Very reluctantly, when no one was around, I called the number, after assuring myself that nothing terrible would happen. I never felt convinced nothing terrible would happen, but I was able to take it on faith — a frail, stumbling, wimpy faith. With my eyes closed, I recited the number to the operator; I was afraid she’d recognize it. She didn’t.
“UCSF,” a voice answered crisply.
Trying to control the shakiness of my voice, I asked for the Center on Sexuality and Disability. I was told the Center had closed — and, momentarily, I felt immeasurably relieved. But I could be given a number to get in touch with the therapists who had once worked there. Would I like that? Uh-oh, another decision. I said ok. But at that number I was told to call another number. There, I was referred to yet another number, then another, then another. I quickly made these calls, not allowing myself time to change my mind. I finally reached someone who promised to mail me a list of the Center’s former therapists who were in private practice.
About this time, a tv talk show featured two surrogates. I watched with suspicion: Were surrogates the same as prostitutes? Although they might gussy it up with some psychology, weren’t they doing similar work?
The surrogates did not look like my stereotypes of hookers: no heavy makeup, no spray-on jeans. The female surrogate was a registered nurse with a master’s in social work. The male surrogate, looking comfortable in his business suit, worked with gay and bisexual men. The surrogates emphasized that they deal mostly with a client’s poor self-image and lack of self-esteem, not just the act of sex itself. Surrogates are trained in the psychology and physiology of sex so they can help people resolve serious sexual difficulties. They aren’t hired directly, but through a client’s therapist. Well aware of the likelihood that a client could fall in love with them, they set a limit of six to eight sessions. They maintain a professional relationship by addressing a specific sexual dysfunction; they aren’t interested in just providing pleasure, but in bringing about needed changes. As I learned more about surrogates, I began to think that perhaps a surrogate could help someone even as screwed-up and disabled as me.
When Sondra went on vacation, I phoned Susan, one of the sex therapists on the list I got fromucsf, and made an appointment to see her in San Francisco. I felt delighted that I could do something about my sexuality without consulting Sondra; perhaps that’s why I did it. I was not sure whether calling the therapist was the right thing to do in Sondra’s absence, or whether it was even necessary, but it felt good to me.
The biggest obstacle to seeing Susan turned out to be the elevator at the Powell Street subway stop, which went from the subterranean station to the street. Because of my curved spine, I cannot sit up straight in a standard wheelchair, so I use a reclining wheelchair which is about five and a half feet long. The elevator in the BART station was about five feet across, diagonally. Dixie, my attendant, raised the back of my wheelchair as high as she could and just barely managed to wrestle me and herself into the elevator. But when we reached street level, she could not get me out. This was ridiculous: if I could get in, the laws of physics should permit me to get out. But the laws of physics were in a foul mood that day. Dixie and I went down to the station level and discovered that I could get out down there. We complained to the station agent, who seemed unable to understand. We tried the elevator again. The door opened on a view of Powell Street. Dixie tried lifting and pushing the wheelchair out of that cigar-box elevator in every possible way.
“Well, do you want to go back to Berkeley?” she asked in frustration.
I thought what a waste it would be to go back now. I told her to raise the back of my wheelchair even higher. It put a tremendous strain on my thigh muscles, but now Dixie was able to wheel me out of the elevator with ease. Liberated, we strolled Powell Street, utterly lost.
Eventually, we found Susan’s office. Right away, I realized I could trust her. She knew what to ask and how to ask it in a way that didn’t frighten me. I described to her my feelings about sex, my fantasies, my self-hate, and my interest in seeing a surrogate. She told me the truth: it would never be easy for me to find a lover because of my disability. She told me that her cerebral palsy, the only evidence of which was her limp, had repelled many people. I found this hard to believe. She was so bright, so caring, so pretty in her dark and angular way. (I was already developing a crush on her.)
Susan said that she knew of a very good surrogate who lived in the East Bay, and that she would give the surrogate’s name and phone number to Sondra when she returned from her vacation. If I decided to go ahead with it, Sondra would call the surrogate and tell her to phone me.
Doing that now seemed less scary. Because of our talk, I had started to believe that my sexual desires were legitimate, that I could take charge of my sexuality and cease thinking of it as something alien.
When Sondra returned from vacation, she told me that she had a message from Susan on her answering machine. She asked why I had seen another therapist without informing her. Sondra seemed curious, not angry as I feared she might be — actually, as I feared my parents would have. I said that I wasn’t sure why I went to see Susan, but that I had felt odd discussing surrogates with Sondra, because she seemed to me to be so much like my idealized mother figure.
Meanwhile, I searched for advice from nearly everyone I knew. One friend told me in a letter to go ahead and “get laid.” Father Mike — a young, bearded priest from the neighborhood Catholic church — told me Jesus was never big on rules, that he often broke the rules out of compassion. No one advised me against seeing a surrogate, but everyone told me I would have to make my own decision.
Frustrated by my inability to get the Answer, a blinding flash that would resolve all my doubts and melt my indecision, I brooded. Why do rehabilitation hospitals teach disabled people how to sew wallets and cook from a wheelchair but not deal with a person’s damaged self-image? Why don’t these hospitals teach disabled people how to love and be loved through sex, or how to love our unusual bodies? I fantasized running a hospital that allowed patients the chance to see a surrogate, and that offered hope for a future richer than daytime tv, chess, and wheelchair basketball. But that was my dream of what I would do for others. What would I do for me?
What if I ever did meet someone who wanted to make love with me? Wouldn’t I feel more secure if I had already had some sexual experience? I knew I could change my perception of myself as a bumbling, indecisive clod, not just by having sex with someone, but by taking charge of my life and trusting myself enough to make decisions. One day, I finally said to Sondra I was ready to see a surrogate.
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lunes, 24 de marzo de 2014

Gitta Sereny

Gitta Sereny, "la cazanazis arrugada."

Por: | 11 de noviembre de 2013
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¿Los verdugos tienen derecho a ser tomados en cuenta por los periodistas? Para Gitta Sereny (1923-2012) era fundamental hacerlo. Fue ella quien desentrañó los horrores de los nazis y de los delitos de sangre cometidos por menores de edad.

Sereny, hija de una actriz alemana y de un aristócrata húngaro, educada en un colegio inglés, asistió en 1934 a un congreso nazi en Núremberg y, al ver el desfile militar, quedó deslumbrada por los movimientos precisos y el entusiasmo de los soldados. A lo lejos observó a Hitler. La apoteosis era desbordante.
Cuatro años después, cuando Gitta Sereny era enfermera de una organización benéfica católica, volvió a ver al Führer. Pero ya no quedó tan impresionada. Porque había conocido el horror expandido por él y los suyos. Ella se ocupaba de niños huérfanos y, ante los traumas que padecían los críos, comenzó a cuestionarse cómo era el carácter de los hombres que los habían producido. 
“Antes de que fuera demasiado tarde, pensaba yo, era esencial penetrar en la personalidad de al menos una de esas personas vinculadas íntimamente a este Mal absoluto. (…) ello quizá nos enseñaría a entender mejor hasta qué punto el mal en los seres humanos es fruto de sus genes y hasta qué punto es fruto de su sociedad y su entorno”, escribió en Desde aquella oscuridad. Conversaciones con el verdugo Franz Stangl, comandante de Treblinka, publicado en español por la editorial Edhasa, un libro donde recoge sus largas conversaciones con ese comandante de los campos de exterminio.
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Habló con él, en alemán, durante más de 70 horas. “El motivo por el que concedí que Franz Stangl podía ser un sujeto apropiado para el proyecto que deseaba llevar a cabo era que, comparado con los otros a quien había observado durante sus respectivos juicios, parecía menos primitivo, más abierto, serio y triste: el único hombre con un expediente tan horrible como el suyo que manifestaba cierto asomo de conciencia”, dijo la periodista. Stangl murió al siguiente día de su última entrevista y enseguida ella se fue a revisar archivos y a buscar gente involucrada en la historia que le había contado. “Las acciones de una persona jamás pueden juzgarse independientemente de los elementos externos que perfilan e influencian su vida”, concluyó.
Hizo un ejercicio similar con Albert Speer, el arquitecto y ministro de armamento de Hitler y quien llegó a ser el número dos del partido, con quien conversó entre 1977 y 1981. Y en El trauma alemán (Península) recopiló una serie de relatos autobiográficos que sintetizan la historia de los nazis en Europa con la intención de dejar claro que “el mal y la violencia pueden estar entre nosotros y estallar en cualquier momento.”
Gitta sereny pasó sus últimos días en un piso de Londres, al lado de su marido, el fotógrafo Don Honeyman, llevando con orgullo del mote de “la cazanazis arrugada.”

 http://blogs.elpais.com/periodista-en-serie/2013/11/gitta-sereny-la-cazanazis-arrugada.html

sábado, 22 de marzo de 2014

Julio Cortázar

La Maga de Cortázar

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Desde la aparición de Rayuela, la obra más reconocida de Julio Cortázar, han surgido dudas sobre quién fue su inspiración para crear el personaje de la Maga. Alejandra Pizarnik, escritora argentina, dijo en una ocasión: “La Maga soy yo”; Cortázar jamás la contradijo, de hecho: miles de mujeres aparecieron asegurando ser las musas del escritor. Y es que la Maga no es cualquier personaje, ésta involucra muchas cosas; Lucía, verdadero nombre de la Maga, simboliza uno de los seres más amados en la historia de la literatura, el amor platónico por excelencia. La realidad de la Maga representaba, y representa, a aquella mujer rebelde quien alumbró y oscureció el París de Cortázar, aquella mujer quien llevó a la locura a Horacio Oliveira y hasta a su mismo creador.

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Si bien diferentes mujeres aseguraron ser la Maga, la más cercana al personaje, se cree, fue su amiga Alejandra Pizarnik. Ambos se conocieron en el París de Rayuela durante la década de los 70, ese París que inspiró a Cortázar a lograr la obra que rompería los esquemas de la literatura del siglo XX y se convertiría, también, en el estandarte del Boom Latinoamericano. Alejandra se sentía sola y necesitaba un ángel guardián, ese que llegó a ser Julio, quien, incluso, la introdujo al círculo literario de París, además de enseñarle los puentes y los atardeceres parisinos que el argentino plasmó en Rayuela.

Julio Cortazar por Mario Muchnik Segovia 1983 b

La importancia de Alejandra Pizarnik en la vida del escritor fue tan exclusiva que fue ella quien leyó, por primera vez, el manuscrito de la aplaudida novela; lo más probable es que Pizarnik no sabría que la Maga de Rayuela sería, en un futuro, un misterio para diversos eruditos de la literatura.
Tiempo después, Alejandra escribió a Julio: “Me dolió tu libro, es tan tuyo, sos tan vos en cada línea (…) Ahora sé (ya lo sabía, pero ahora lo sé de alguien que está vivo, cuya mejilla he besado alguna vez) que todo, o casi todo, puede ser dicho en muy pocas palabras”.

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 Lo cierto es que a pesar de la estrecha relación que mantenían, nunca se aseguró nada más que una muy buena amistad y, claro, una pasión por las letras que sólo ellos entendían. Pero lo que ambos escritores tenían no se necesitaba explicar, pues el sentimiento se sentía en las miradas, en la piel y, por supuesto, en la delicada correspondencia que mantuvieron durante mucho tiempo.
Las cartas reflejaban la suave ayuda que Julio ofrecía a su amiga, quien incitaba a luchar contra esas sombras que la perseguían y que le crearon adicciones. A pesar de los intentos de Cortázar por ayudarla, la muerte nunca dejó su mente, ni su poesía, ni las cartas, ni la vida diaria de Pizarnik, actitud que a Julio incomodaba; la palabra ‘suicidio’ se repetía constantemente en los pensamientos de la argentina, insistía en escribir sobre lo bajo que caía, sobre sus pocas ganas de vivir y de su vida sin sentido, aun con el apoyo de Cortázar. Pizarnik llegó varias veces al hospital por intento de suicidio hasta que en una ocasión, por fin, encontró la muerte a través de una sobredosis.

pizarnik_enescultura

El cronopio ya conocía el temperamento de su amiga, sabía de su manera de abandonarse a toda clase de peligros; incluso, la esposa de éste notaba los problemas de Alejandra. Su muerte lastimó mucho a Cortázar, pues la relación que mantuvo con la escritora fue, probablemente, una de las que marcó su vida.
Es posible que esta amistad pueda compararse con la literatura de Cortázar, pues fue trascendente, musical, erótica, poética pero sobretodo: misteriosa.
 Quizá nunca se obtenga una explicación certera sobre esa relación, tampoco sobre Rayuela, sólo quedan las interminables interpretaciones de críticos literarios y personas cercanas a los escritores, quienes definieron aquella relación de diferentes maneras pero siempre llegando a una conclusión: Alejandra y Julio se encontraron, quizá, por accidente, aquello que tenían era complejo y único. Al final de todo, los dos vivieron de las palabras y seguramente nunca se sabrá si Pizarnik fue la Maga o no, pero la locura reflejada enRayuela fue un tanto similar a la vida de ambos escritores, a la duda de la existencia humana y los miedos cotidianos.

- See more at: http://culturacolectiva.com/la-maga-de-cortazar/#sthash.G0GrrBoC.dpuf

Elizabeth Loftus


jueves, 13 de marzo de 2014

Robert Lustig


The man who tried to warn us about sugar in 1972 was suppressed



By Julia Llewellyn Smith, The Daily Telegraph
A couple of years ago, an out-of-print book published in 1972 by a long-dead British professor suddenly became a collector’s item. Copies that had been lying dusty on bookshelves were selling for hundreds of pounds, while copies were also being pirated online.
Alongside such rarities as Madonna’s Sex, Stephen King’s Rage (written as Richard Bachman) and Promise Me Tomorrow by Nora Roberts; Pure, White and Deadly by John Yudkin, a book widely derided at the time of publication, was listed as one of the most coveted out-of-print works in the world.
How exactly did a long-forgotten book suddenly become so prized? The cause was a ground-breaking lecture called Sugar: the Bitter Truth by Robert Lustig, professor of paediatric endocrinology at the University of California, in which Lustig hailed Yudkin’s work as “prophetic”.
“Without even knowing it, I was a Yudkin acolyte,” says Lustig, who tracked down the book after a tip from a colleague via an interlibrary loan. “Everything this man said in 1972 was the God’s honest truth and if you want to read a true prophecy you find this book… I’m telling you every single thing this guy said has come to pass. I’m in awe.”
Posted on YouTube in 2009, Lustig’s 90-minute talk has received 4.1 million hits and is credited with kick-starting the anti-sugar movement, a campaign that calls for sugar to be treated as a toxin, like alcohol and tobacco, and for sugar-laden foods to be taxed, labelled with health warnings and banned for anyone under 18.
Lustig is one of a growing number of scientists who don’t just believe sugar makes you fat and rots teeth. They’re convinced it’s the cause of several chronic and very common illnesses, including heart diseasecancerAlzheimer’s and diabetes. It’s alsoaddictive, since it interferes with our appetites and creates an irresistible urge to eat.
This year, Lustig’s message has gone mainstream; many of the New Year diet books focused not on fat or carbohydrates, but on cutting out sugar and the everyday foods (soups, fruit juices, bread) that contain high levels of sucrose. The anti-sugar camp is not celebrating yet, however. They know what happened to Yudkin and what a ruthless and unscrupulous adversary the sugar industry proved to be.
The tale begins in the Sixties. That decade, nutritionists in university laboratories all over America and Western Europe were scrabbling to work out the reasons for an alarming rise in heart disease levels. By 1970, there were 520 deaths per 100,000 per year in England and Wales caused by coronary heart disease and 700 per 100,000 in America. After a while, a consensus emerged: the culprit was the high level of fat in our diets.
One scientist in particular grabbed the headlines: a nutritionist from the University of Minnesota called Ancel Keys. Keys, famous for inventing the K-ration – 12,000 calories packed in a little box for use by troops during the Second World War – declared fat to be public enemy number one and recommended that anyone who was worried about heart disease should switch to a low-fat “Mediterranean” diet.
Instead of treating the findings as a threat, the food industry spied an opportunity. Market research showed there was a great deal of public enthusiasm for “healthy” products and low-fat foods would prove incredibly popular. By the start of the Seventies, supermarket shelves were awash with low-fat yogurts, spreads, and even desserts and biscuits.
But, amid this new craze, one voice stood out in opposition. John Yudkin, founder of the nutrition department at the University of London’s Queen Elizabeth College, had been doing his own experiments and, instead of laying the blame at the door of fat, he claimed there was a much clearer correlation between the rise in heart disease and a rise in the consumption of sugar. Rodents, chickens, rabbits, pigs and students fed sugar and carbohydrates, he said, invariably showed raised blood levels of triglycerides (a technical term for fat), which was then, as now, considered a risk factor for heart disease. Sugar also raised insulin levels, linking it directly to type 2 diabetes.
When he outlined these results in Pure, White and Deadly, in 1972, he questioned whether there was any causal link at all between fat and heart disease. After all, he said, we had been eating substances like butter for centuries, while sugar, had, up until the 1850s, been something of a rare treat for most people. “If only a small fraction of what we know about the effects of sugar were to be revealed in -relation to any other material used as a food additive,” he wrote, “that material would promptly be banned.”
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This was not what the food industry wanted to hear. When devising their low-fat products, manufacturers had needed a fat substitute to stop the food tasting like cardboard, and they had plumped for sugar. The new “healthy” foods were low-fat but had sugar by the spoonful and Yudkin’s findings threatened to disrupt a very profitable business.
As a result, says Lustig, there was a concerted campaign by the food industry and several scientists to discredit Yudkin’s work. The most vocal critic was Ancel Keys.
Keys loathed Yudkin and, even before Pure, White and Deadly appeared, he published an article, describing Yudkin’s evidence as “flimsy indeed”.
“Yudkin always maintained his equanimity, but Keys was a real a––-, who stooped to name-calling and character assassination,” says Lustig, speaking from New York, where he’s just recorded yet another television interview.
The British Sugar Bureau put out a press release dismissing Yudkin’s claims as “emotional assertions” and the World Sugar Research Organisation described his book as “science fiction”. When Yudkin sued, it printed a mealy-mouthed retraction, concluding: “Professor Yudkin recognises that we do not agree with [his] views and accepts that we are entitled to express our disagreement.”
Yudkin was “uninvited” to international conferences. Others he organised were cancelled at the last minute, after pressure from sponsors, including, on one occasion, Coca-Cola. When he did contribute, papers he gave attacking sugar were omitted from publications. The British Nutrition Foundation, one of whose sponsors was Tate & Lyle, never invited anyone from Yudkin’s internationally acclaimed department to sit on its committees. Even Queen Elizabeth College reneged on a promise to allow the professor to use its research facilities when he retired in 1970 (to write Pure, White and Deadly). Only after a letter from Yudkin’s solicitor was he offered a small room in a separate building.
“Can you wonder that one sometimes becomes quite despondent about whether it is worthwhile trying to do scientific research in matters of health?” he wrote. “The results may be of great importance in helping people to avoid disease, but you then find they are being misled by propaganda designed to support commercial interests in a way you thought only existed in bad B films.”
And this “propaganda” didn’t just affect Yudkin. By the end of the Seventies, he had been so discredited that few scientists dared publish anything negative about sugar for fear of being similarly attacked. As a result, the low-fat industry, with its products laden with sugar, boomed.
Yudkin’s detractors had one trump card: his evidence often relied on observations, rather than on explanations, of rising obesity, heart disease and diabetes rates. “He could tell you these things were happening but not why, or at least not in a scientifically acceptable way,” says David Gillespie, author of the bestselling Sweet Poison. “Three or four of the hormones that would explain his theories had not been discovered.”
“Yudkin knew a lot more data was needed to support his theories, but what’s important about his book is its historical significance,” says Lustig. “It helps us understand how a concept can be bastardised by dark forces of industry.”
From the Eighties onwards, several discoveries gave new credence to Yudkin’s theories. Researchers found fructose, one of the two main carbohydrates in refined sugar, is primarily metabolised by the liver; while glucose (found in starchy food like bread and potatoes) is metabolised by all cells. This means consuming excessive fructose puts extra strain on the liver, which then converts fructose to fat. This induces a condition known as insulin resistance, or metabolic syndrome, which doctors now generally acknowledge to be the major risk factor for heart disease, diabetes and obesity, as well as a possible factor for many cancers. Yudkin’s son, Michael, a former professor of biochemistry at Oxford, says his father was never bitter about the way he was treated, but, “he was hurt personally”.
“More than that,” says Michael, “he was such an enthusiast of public health, it saddened him to see damage being done to us all, because of vested interests in the food industry.”
One of the problems with the anti-sugar message – then and now – is how depressing it is. The substance is so much part of our culture, that to be told buying children an ice cream may be tantamount to poisoning them, is most unwelcome. But Yudkin, who grew up in dire poverty in east London and went on to win a scholarship toCambridge, was no killjoy. “He didn’t ban sugar from his house, and certainly didn’t deprive his grandchildren of ice cream or cake,” recalls his granddaughter, Ruth, a psychotherapist. “He was hugely fun-loving and would never have wanted to be deprived of a pleasure, partly, perhaps, because he grew up in poverty and had worked so hard to escape that level of deprivation.”
“My father certainly wasn’t fanatical,” adds Michael. “If he was invited to tea and offered cake, he’d accept it. But at home, it’s easy to say no to sugar in your tea. He believed if you educated the public to avoid sugar, they’d understand that.”
Thanks to Lustig and the rehabilitation of Yudkin’s reputation, Penguin republished Pure, White and Deadly 18 months ago. Obesity rates in the UK are now 10 times what they were when it was first published and the amount of sugar we eat has increased 31.5 per cent since 1990 (thanks to all the “invisible” sugar in everything from processed food and orange juice to coleslaw and yogurt). The number of diabetics in the world has nearly trebled. The numbers dying of heart disease has decreased, thanks to improved drugs, but the number living with the disease is growing steadily.
As a result, the World Health Organisation is set to recommend a cut in the amount of sugar in our diets from 22 teaspoons per day to almost half that. But its director-general, Margaret Chan, has warned that, while it might be on the back foot at last, the sugar industry remains a formidable adversary, determined to safeguard its market position.
Recently, UK food campaigners have complained that they’re being shunned by ministers who are more than willing to take meetings with representatives from the food industry. “It is not just Big Tobacco any more,” Chan said last year. “Public health must also contend with Big Food, Big Soda and Big Alcohol. All of these industries fear regulation and protect themselves by using the same tactics. They include front groups, lobbies, promises of self-regulation, lawsuits and industry-funded research that confuses the evidence and keeps the public in doubt.”
Dr Julian Cooper, head of research at AB Sugar, insists the increase in the incidence of obesity in Britain is a result of, “a range of complex factors”. “Reviews of the body of scientific evidence by expert committees have concluded that consuming sugar as part of a balanced diet does not induce lifestyle diseases such as diabetes and heart disease,” he says.
If you look up Robert Lustig on Wikipedia, nearly two-thirds of the studies cited there to repudiate Lustig’s views were funded by Coca-Cola. But Gillespie believes the message is getting through. “More people are avoiding sugar, and when this happens companies adjust what they’re selling,” he says. It’s just a shame, he adds, that a warning that could have been taken on board 40 years ago went unheeded: “Science took a disastrous detour in ignoring Yudkin. It was to the detriment of the health of millions.”
Source: The Daily Telegraph
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