The surest way to start a spat over the dinner table in strictly rational and empirical, science-worshipping Cambridge, where I live, is to say that you think complementary medicine can sometimes prove effective. It’s tantamount, in many of my friends’ eyes, to declaring yourself a congenital imbecile.
I have enormous sympathy for their views on the matter. I understand that the only proper way of proving the efficacy of a particular treatment is the use of randomised controlled trials, and that anecdotes of “miracle cures” hardly amount to serious evidence. I would be the first to admit that you never hear of anyone who requires a heart by-pass, or liver transplant, being healed by homeopathy or Reiki. I find it just as terrifying as any doctor when a cancer patient declares they’d rather not have an operation because they’re going to sit in a pyramid and meditate with crystals.
At the same time, I have a degree in English literature and I am highly suggestible, hence my fondness for Hamlet’s quote: “There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio / Than are dreamt of in your philosophy.”