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I’m a believer

In our increasingly secular society, many religious people feel their voices are not heard. So here,

After four centuries of breathtaking scientific progress, many wonder why intelligent people would still feel the need to believe in God. Andrew Zak Williams decided to find out. Over the course of several months, he corresponded with dozens of scientists and other public figures, quizzing them on the reasons for their faith. Here is a selection of the responses.

Cherie Blair, barrister
It's been a journey from my upbringing to an understanding of something that my head cannot explain but my heart knows to be true.

Jeremy Vine, broadcaster
There is a subjective reason and an objective reason. The subjective reason is that I find consolation in my faith. The objective reason is that the story of the gospels has stood the test of time and Christ comes across as a totally captivating figure.

In moments of weariness or cynicism, I tell myself I only believe because my parents did; and the Christian faith poses more questions than it answers.

But I still return to believing, as if that is more natural than not doing so.

Richard Swinburne, emeritus professor of philosophy, University of Oxford
To suppose that there is a God explains why there is a physical universe at all; why there are the scientific laws there are; why animals and then human beings have evolved; why human beings have the opportunity to mould their character and those of their fellow humans for good or ill and to change the environment in which we live; why we have the well-authenticated account of Christ's life, death and resurrection; why throughout the centuries millions of people (other than ourselves) have had the apparent experience of being in touch with and guided by God; and so much else.
In fact, the hypothesis of the existence of God makes sense of the whole of our experience and it does so better than any other explanation that can be put forward, and that is the grounds for believing it to be true.

Peter Hitchens, journalist
I believe in God because I choose to do so. I believe in the Christian faith because I prefer to do so. The existence of God offers an explanation of many of the mysteries of the universe - es­pecially "Why is there something rather than nothing?" and the questions which follow from that. It requires our lives to have a purpose, and our actions to be measurable against a higher standard than their immediate, observable effect. Having chosen belief in a God over unbelief, I find the Christian gospels more per­suasive and the Christian moral system more powerful than any other religious belief.

I was, it is true, brought up as a Christian, but ceased to be one for many years. When I returned to belief I could have chosen any, but did not.

Jonathan Aitken, former politician
I believe in God because I have searched for Him and found Him in the crucible of brokenness. Some years ago I went through an all-too-well-publicised drama of defeat, disgrace, divorce, bankruptcy and jail. In the course of that saga I discovered a loving God who answers prayers, forgives and redeems.

James Jones, Bishop of Liverpool
One word: Jesus. All that you imagine God would be, He is. His life and His love are compelling, His wisdom convincing.

Richard Chartres, Bishop of London
I believe in God because He has both revealed and hidden Himself in so many different ways: in the created world, the Holy Bible, the man Jesus Christ; in the Church and men and women of God through the ages; in human relationships, in culture and beauty, life and death, pain and suffering; in immortal longings, in my faltering prayers and relationship with Him. There is nothing conclusive to force me into believing, but everything sug­gestive, and constantly drawing me on into the love of Christ and to "cleave ever to the sunnier side of doubt".

David Alton, Lib Dem peer
The notion that humanity and the cosmos are an accident has always seemed implausible. A world littered with examples of complex genius - from developments in quantum theory to regenerative medicine - points us towards genius more perfect and more unfathomable than ourselves. The powerful combination of faith and reason led me as a child to believe in God.

Unsurprisingly, as I matured into manhood, that belief has not been immune against the usual catalogue of failure, sadness and grief; and belief has certainly not camouflaged the horrors of situations I have seen first hand in places such as Congo and Sudan. Paradoxically, it has been where suffering has been most acute that I have also seen the greatest faith.

By contrast, the more we own or have, the more difficulty we seem to have in seeing and encountering the Divine.

Professor Stephen R L Clark, philosopher
I believe in God because the alternatives are worse. Not believing in God would mean that we have no good reason to think that creatures such as us human beings (accidentally generated in a world without any overall purpose) have any capacity - still less any duty - to discover what the world is like.

Denying that "God exists" while still maintaining a belief in the power of reason is, in my view, ridiculous.My belief is that we need to add both that God is at least possibly incarnate among us, and that the better description of God (with all possible caveats about the difficulty of speaking about the infinite source of all being and value) is as something like a society. In other words, the Christian doctrine of the incarnation, and of the trinity, have the philosophical edge. And once those doctrines are included, it is possible to see that other parts of that tradition are important.

Nick Spencer, director of Theos, the public theology think tank
I would say I find Christianity (rather than just belief in God) the most intellectually and emotionally satisfying explanation for being.

Stephen Green, director of the fundamentalist pressure group Christian Voice
I came to faith in God through seeing the ducks on a pond in People's Park, Grimsby. It struck me that they were all doing a similar job, but had different plumage. Why was that? Why did the coot have a white beak and the moorhen a red one? Being a hard-nosed engineer, I needed an explanation that worked and the evolutionary model seemed too far-fetched and needful of too much faith!

I mean, what could possibly be the evolutionary purpose of the bars on the hen mallard's wings, which can only be seen when she flies? Or the tuft on the head of the tufted duck?

So I was drawn logically to see them as designed like that. I suppose I believed in an intelligent designer long before the idea became fashionable. So, that left me as a sort of a deist. But God gradually became more personal to me and I was drawn against all my adolescent atheist beliefs deeper and deeper into faith in Jesus Christ.

Douglas Hedley, reader in metaphysics, Clare College, Cambridge
Do values such as truth, beauty and goodness emerge out of a contingent and meaningless substrate? Or do these values reflect a transcendent domain from which this world has emerged? I incline to the latter, and this is a major reason for my belief in God.

Paul Davies, quantum physicist
I am not comfortable answering the question "Why do you believe in God?" because you haven't defined "God". In any case, as a scientist,
I prefer not to deal in "belief" but rather in the usefulness of concepts. I am sure I don't believe in any sort of god with which most readers of your article would identify.

I do, however, assume (along with all scientists) that there is a rational and intelligible scheme of things that we uncover through scientific investigation. I am uncomfortable even being linked with "a god" because of the vast baggage that this term implies (a being with a mind, able to act on matter within time, making decisions, etc).

Professor Derek Burke, biochemist and former president of Christians in Science
There are several reasons why I believe in God. First of all, as a scientist who has been privileged to live in a time of amazing scientific discoveries (I received my PhD in 1953, the year Watson and Crick discovered the structure of DNA), I have been overwhelmed by wonder at the order and intricacy of the world around us. It is like peeling skins off an onion: every time you peel off a layer, there is another one underneath, equally marvellously intricate. Surely this could not have arisen by chance? Then my belief is strengthened by reading the New Testament especially, with the accounts of that amazing person, Jesus, His teaching, His compassion, His analysis of the human condition, but above all by His resurrection. Third, I'm deeply impressed by the many Christians whom I have met who have lived often difficult lives with compassion and love. They are an inspiration to me.

Peter J Bussey, particle physicist
God is the ultimate explanation, and this includes the explanation for the existence of physical reality, for laws of nature and everything. Let me at this point deal with a commonly encountered "problem" with the existence of God, one that Richard Dawkins and others have employed.
It goes that if God is the ultimate cause or the ultimate explanation, what then is the cause of God, or the explanation for God? My reply
is that, even in our own world, it is improper to repeat the same investigatory question an indefinite number of times. For example, we ask, "Who designed St Paul's Cathedral?" and receive the reply: "Sir Christopher Wren." But, "No help whatever," objects the sceptic, "because, in that case, who then designed Sir Christopher Wren?" To this, our response will now be that it is an inappropriate question and anyone except a Martian would know that. Different questions will be relevant now.

So, likewise, it is very unlikely that we know the appropriate questions, if any, to ask about God, who is presumably outside time, and is the source of the selfsame rationality that we presume to employ to understand the universe and to frame questions about God.
What should perhaps be underlined is that, in the absence of total proof, belief in God will be to some extent a matter of choice.

Reverend Professor Michael Reiss, bioethicist and Anglican priest
At the age of 18 or 19, a religious way of understanding the world began increasingly to make sense. It did not involve in any way abandoning the scientific way. If you like, it's a larger way of understanding our relationship with the rest of the world, our position in nature and all those standard questions to do with why we are here, if there is life after death, and so on. That was reinforced by good teaching, prayer and regular reading of scripture.

Peter Richmond, theoretical physicist
Today most people reject the supernatural but there can be no doubt that the teachings of Jesus are still relevant. And here I would differentiate these from some of the preaching of authoritarian churches, which has no doubt been the source of much that could be considered to be evil over the years. Even today, we see conflict in places such as Africa or the Middle East - killings made in the name of religion, for example. As Christians, we recognise these for what they are - evil acts perpetrated by the misguided. At a more domestic level, the marginalisation of women in the Church is another example that should be exposed for what it is: sheer prejudice by the present incumbents of the Church hierarchy. But as Christians, we can choose to make our case to change things as we try to follow the social teachings of Jesus. Compared to pagan idols, Jesus offered hope, comfort and inspiration, values that are as relevant today as they were 2,000 years ago.

David Myers, professor of psychology, Hope College, Michigan
[Our] spirituality, rooted in the developing biblical wisdom and in a faith tradition that crosses the centuries, helps make sense of the universe, gives meaning to life, opens us to the transcendent, connects us in supportive communities, provides a mandate for morality and selflessness and offers hope in the face of adversity and death.

Kenneth Miller, professor of biology, Brown University
I regard scientific rationality as the key to understanding the material basis of our existence as well as our history as a species. That's the reason why I have fought so hard against the "creationists" and those who advocate "intelligent design". They deny science and oppose scientific rationality, and I regard their ideas as a threat to a society such as ours that has been so hospitable to the scientific enterprise.

There are, however, certain questions that science cannot answer - not because we haven't figured them out yet (there are lots of those), but because they are not scientific questions at all. As the Greek philosophers used to ask, what is the good life? What is the nature of good and evil? What is the purpose to existence? My friend Richard Dawkins would ask, in response, why we should think that such questions are even important. But to most of us, I would respond, these are the most important questions of all.

What I can tell you is that the world I see, including the world I know about from science, makes more sense to me in the light of a spiritual understanding of existence and the hypo­thesis of God. Specifically, I see a moral polarity to life, a sense that "good" and "evil" are actual qualities, not social constructions, and that choosing the good life (as the Greeks meant it) is the central question of existence. Given that, the hypothesis of God conforms to what I know about the material world from science and gives that world a depth of meaning that I would find impossible without it.

Now, I certainly do not "know" that the spirit is real in the sense that you and I can agree on the evidence that DNA is real and that it is the chemical basis of genetic information. There is, after all, a reason religious belief is called "faith", and not "certainty". But it is a faith that fits, a faith that is congruent with science, and even provides a reason why science works and is of such value - because science explores that rationality of existence, a rationality that itself derives from the source of that existence.

In any case, I am happy to confess that I am a believer, and that for me, the Christian faith is the one that resonates. What I do not claim is that my religious belief, or anyone's, can meet a scientific test.

Nick Brewin, molecular biologist
A crucial component of the question depends on the definition of "God". As a scientist, the "God" that I believe in is not the same God(s) that I used to believe in. It is not the same God that my wife believes in; nor is it the same God that my six-year-old granddaughter believes in; nor is it the God that my brain-damaged and physically disabled brother believes in. Each person has their own concept of what gives value and purpose to their life. This concept of "God" is based on a combination of direct and indirect experience.

Humankind has become Godlike, in the sense that it has acquired the power to store and manipulate information. Language, books, computers and DNA genomics provide just a few illustrations of the amazing range of technologies at our fingertips. Was this all merely chance? Or should we try to make sense of the signs and wonders that are embedded in a "revealed religion"?

Perhaps by returning to the "faith" position of children or disabled adults, scientists can extend their own appreciation of the value and purpose of individual human existence. Science and religion are mutually complementary.

Hugh Ross, astrophysicist and astronomer
Astronomy fascinates me. I started serious study of the universe when I was seven. By the age of 16, I could see that Big Bang cosmology offered the best explanation for the history of the universe, and because the Big Bang implies a cosmic beginning, it would require a cosmic beginner. It seemed reasonable that a creator of such awesome capacities would speak clearly and consistently if He spoke at all. So I spent two years perusing the holy books of the world's religions to test for these characteristics. I found only one such book. The Bible stood apart: not only did it provide hundreds of "fact" statements that could be tested for accuracy, it also anticipated - thousands of years in advance - what scientists would later discover, such as the fundamental features of Big Bang cosmology.

My observation that the Bible's multiple creation narratives accurately describe hundreds of details discovered much later, and that it consistently places them in the scientifically correct sequence, convinced me all the more that the Bible must be the supernaturally inspired word of God. Discoveries in astronomy first alerted me to the existence of God, and to this day the Bible's power to anticipate scientific discoveries and predict sociopolitical events ranks as a major reason for my belief in the God of the Bible. Despite my secular upbringing, I cannot ignore the compelling evidence emerging from research into the origin of the universe, the anthropic principle, the origin of life and the origin of humanity. Theaccumulating evidence continues to point compellingly towards the God of the Bible.

Steve Fuller, philosopher/professor of sociology, University of Warwick
I am a product of a Jesuit education (before university), and my formal academic training is in history and philosophy of science, which is the field credited with showing the tight links between science and religion. While I have never been an avid churchgoer, I am strongly moved by the liberatory vision of Jesus promoted by left-wing Christians.

I take seriously the idea that we are created in the image and likeness of God, and that we may come to exercise the sorts of powers that are associated with divinity. In this regard, I am sympathetic to the dissenting, anticlerical schools of Christianity - especially Unitarianism, deism and transcendentalism, idealism and humanism. I believe that it is this general position that has informed the progressive scientific spirit.

People such as Dawkins and Christopher Hitchens like to think of themselves as promoting a progressive view of humanity, but I really do not see how Darwinism allows that at all, given its species-egalitarian view of nature (that is, humans are just one more species - no more privileged than the rest of them). As I see it, the New Atheists live a schizoid existence, where they clearly want to privilege humanity but have no metaphysical basis for doing so.

Michael J Behe, scientific advocate of intelligent design
Two primary reasons: 1) that anything exists; and 2) that we human beings can comprehend and reason. I think both of those point to God.

Denis Alexander, director, Faraday Institute for Science and Religion, Cambridge
I believe in the existence of a personal God. Viewing the universe as a creation renders it more coherent than viewing its existence as without cause. It is the intelligibility of the world that requires explanation.

Second, I am intellectually persuaded by the historical life, teaching, death and resurrection of Jesus of Nazareth, that He is indeed the
Son of God. Jesus is most readily explicable by understanding Him as the Son of God. Third, having been a Christian for more than five decades, I have experienced God through Christ over this period in worship, answered prayer and through His love. These experiences are more coherent based on the assumption that God does exist.

Mike Hulme, professor of climate change, University of East Anglia
There are many reasons - lines of evidence, if you will - all of which weave together to point me in a certain direction (much as a scientist or a jury might do before reaching a considered judgement), which we call a belief.

[I believe] because there is non-trivial historical evidence that a person called Jesus of Naza­reth rose from the dead 2,000 years ago, and
it just so happens that He predicted that He would . . . I believe because of the testimony of billions of believers, just a few of whom are known to me and in whom I trust (and hence trust their testimony).

I believe because of my ineradicable sense that certain things I see and hear about in the world warrant the non-arbitrary categories of "good" or "evil". I believe because I have not discovered a better explanation of beauty, truth and love than that they emerge in a world created - willed into being - by a God who personifies beauty, truth and love.

Andrew Zak Williams has written for the Humanist and Skeptic. His email address is:

This article first appeared in the 18 April 2011 issue of the New Statesman, GOD Special

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The silver scent of fear

Learning to live with epilepsy.

I was swimming in the cool, still water of the lake. I was 12 and it was my second summer at sleep-away camp. New York City is roasting and humid in July and August and so, like many of my peers, I was lucky enough to be sent off to Maine for eight weeks. The trouble was, I didn’t feel lucky. I hated Camp Fernwood – but my mother had gone there, and I was a nice kid, and I didn’t want to let her down. So I spent a lot of time, during those beautiful summers, feeling very anxious.

One afternoon, a different sort of anxiety came over me as I paddled in Thompson Lake. The memory is crystal clear, or so I tell myself. I was not far from the wooden dock. I was on my own. In an instant – a long instant – everything changed. My body changed, for a start: my heart was pounding and my vision narrowed, as if I were staring down a tunnel. I was inside of myself, and outside of myself, in a way that I had never felt before; and in the back of my throat and up towards the bridge of my nose, there was what I will call an elusive silver scent, distant and clean.

The world became a globe of terror. I wasn’t scared. I wasn’t anxious. I knew what those things felt like, and this was something else. Now I was more frightened than I had ever been. I would learn to know that terror well; nothing would ever alleviate it. Familiarity did not bring peace. My brain was making terror. There would be no escape from that.

None of these words is adequate to describe what happened to me then. Nearly 40 years have passed and I have never found the words to capture the sensation of that first seizure – and every seizure since. That first time, I didn’t know I was having a seizure. I didn’t know the word “epilepsy”. I pulled myself out of the water, somehow getting to the dock and up on to dry land. I didn’t tell anyone, just then. Everyone knew me as a worried, pain-in-the-arse kid, anyhow. Why make things worse?

A few days later, I went to see the camp nurse and told her what had happened to me. (I loved going to the camp nurse. If you were in her little cabin, you didn’t have to play tennis or softball or sing camp songs.) That summer, the nurse had her husband with her, a doctor, who was taking his summer vacation by the lake shore in Maine. She called him into the room with us and he listened. Eventually I saw my own doctor. Not long after that, my mother and I sat in the office of a paediatric neurologist. He was the first person who said epilepsy to me.

It is only now, in retrospect, that I realise how lucky I was that my mother – who was even more anxious than I, in general – did not seem unduly alarmed. At 12, I had no idea that, for many with the condition and their families, epilepsy casts a dark shadow; that a diagnosis carries the legacy of the days when sufferers were not allowed to marry, or were confined to lunatic asylums.




In the United Kingdom, there are about half a million people with epilepsy, although the term can mean many ­different things. There are more than 40 different kinds of seizure and these can be divided into two broad groups: focal seizures (which are also called partial seizures) and generalised seizures. Figures vary, but roughly two-thirds of those with epilepsy have focal seizures and a third have generalised seizures. They are surges of electrical activity in the brain. The pioneering British neurologist John Hughlings Jackson, who died in 1911, put it succinctly: “Epilepsy is the name for occasional, sudden, excessive, rapid and local discharges of grey matter.”

My episodes involve simple focal seizures that happen in the temporal lobe of my brain. Generalised seizures affect the whole brain and cause a loss of consciousness – the muscles of the body may relax completely, or they may jerk and cause the person to convulse. The latter is perhaps the “classic” idea that most people have of epilepsy, and it is the image that has led to epileptics (a term that is disputed) facing discrimination, throughout history and in many cultures.

In the ancient world, it was sometimes known as the “sacred disease”, but as early as 400BC physicians began to believe that epilepsy might have an organic, rather than a divine, cause. Julius Caesar’s collapse in the heat of battle in 46BC has been attributed to a seizure (though it has recently been argued that he had a series of mini-strokes); Joan of Arc’s visions may have been the result of epilepsy; the visual and auditory hallucinations of Vincent Van Gogh might have been caused by the condition; Dostoevsky has been described as the best-known epileptic in history.

As Colin Grant writes in his fine new book about the condition, A Smell of Burning, people with epilepsy are often presented with a list of this sort, as if it offered encouragement: “Look at Van Gogh, look at Caesar, look at the abolitionist Harriet Tubman – they still got on with their lives.” But this can be cold comfort. Aside from the way in which epilepsy (especially generalised seizures) can limit a person’s life, there is still a great deal of stigma attached to the disease, even in the 21st century.

It is a stigma that Ley Sander has encountered often. Sander, a Brazilian who has lived in the UK for 30 years, is a professor of neurology and clinical epilepsy at University College London; he has been the medical director of the Epilepsy Society since 2012 and also leads the World Health Organisation Collaborating Centre for Research and Training in Neurosciences in London.

He is a charming man, with bright eyes and salt-and-pepper hair. His easy smile and mischievous sense of humour put both patients and journalists at ease – but he is serious when it comes to the treatment of epilepsy and the discrimination that his patients can face. Fellow physicians are often startled that he has chosen to specialise in the disorder. They assume that he must have a personal or familial connection to epilepsy. He does not.

“It’s still a hidden condition,” Sander says. “People don’t have a problem talking about Parkinson’s, or HIV, but epilepsy – not yet. That’s very common in all sorts of societies. It remains in the shadows. I have a number of eminent people who come to my clinic, from all walks of life, and as soon as you talk to them about ‘coming out’, or being a role model, they refuse to be involved.

“I had a situation not long ago, with one very eminent person. I thought I had persuaded this person to speak out. But within two or three hours of our conversation, I had his agent on the phone, saying he was going to sue me for breach of medical confidentiality. I had not done anything – we had only discussed it.”




We are sitting in Sander’s airy office at the Chalfont Centre in the village of Chalfont St Peter, Buckinghamshire. The centre, a complex of nondescript buildings ten minutes’ drive from Gerrards Cross, is much more remarkable than it initially looks, as I discovered when I first visited as a patient in the spring of 2015. After I was diagnosed with epilepsy at 12, I remained on medication until I was in my early twenties, but gradually weaned myself off the tablets when it became apparent that my seizures had disappeared. This is fairly common in juvenile epilepsy. Then, a couple of years ago, without warning, they returned, like a troublesome friend from my youth showing up on Facebook, certain that we’d want to be mates again.

The seizures seemed identical to what I had experienced when I was so much younger – the same, indescribable disorientation and terror. I wish I could better express the way they feel: like being shut out of one world and shoved into another, or like shooting down some kind of wormhole of consciousness.

For about 20 minutes after they occurred, I would lose language. The names of places or people I knew as well as my own, would vanish. In the aftermath, there came a kind of exhaustion that perhaps best resembled a hangover; my husband would tell me that I looked pale and drawn. Because I am a writer, I found the brief aphasia the most upsetting aspect. What if the words never came back? They always did, but that never diminished the fear.

Occasionally I had a seizure in public – while teaching, say, or doing an interview – and I would cover for my sudden silence, my sudden pallor, by saying as soon as I could that I was very tired, that I’d had a bad night, that I was sorry. It was a measure of friendship if I felt that I could tell someone what was going on. I would feel better if I could be touched, if I my hand could be held, if I could feel another’s physical presence. Worst of all and most fearful was to be alone, in an empty house. Were you scared when you saw The Shining? Right. Like that.

I looked for a trigger – did they come when I was particularly stressed? When I was especially relaxed? There was no pattern, at least not one I could discern.

My GP sent me to the National Hospital for Neurology and Neurosurgery in Queen Square, London. There I met Professor Sander and his colleagues – and perhaps, if I’m honest, I’d expected them to send me away with reassurances that my seizures were nothing to worry about. Was this because I didn’t wish to acknowledge that my epilepsy had returned? I suppose so, though I had never felt the stigma of the condition, at least consciously. (In 2007 I published a novel called Seizure, which I don’t think I would have done if I’d wanted to keep quiet about the whole business.)

Yet anything that affects the brain in the way that epilepsy does can’t be brushed aside. The doctors at Queen Square took my condition very seriously. I was put back on medication straight away and sent for two days of testing at the Sir William Gowers Centre, which is part of the Chalfont Centre. An NHS facility, it is run by a partnership between University College London Hospitals and the Epilepsy Society. I was affected by the level of care I saw there – from doctors, nurses, support staff. Many patients, more badly affected by epilepsy than I am, were there for many days or even weeks as their condition was monitored.

The unit has 26 beds and offers video-EEG telemetry (in which the electrical activity of the patient’s brain is monitored while he or she is being videoed), advanced MRI scanning, drug-level monitoring, neuro­psychiatry and psychology. Each year, it admits over 1,300 patients from all over the UK and Ireland for assessment and treatment. Although its low buildings are nothing special to look at, its comfortable sitting room opens out on to a beautiful view of the Icknield Way, an ancient pathway that runs from Buckinghamshire to Norfolk.

The centre is one of the world’s oldest facilities for the treatment of epilepsy. The National Society for the Employment of Epileptics (now the Epilepsy Society) was founded in London in 1892; its first task was to establish a “colony” where people with the condition could live and work, because this was a time when words such as “degenerate”, “idiot” and “lunatic” were used almost interchangeably with “epileptic”.

On the walls, there are black-and-white photographs of early-20th-century residents shoeing horses, ironing and playing golf or football. Back in those days, when the place was primarily residential, rather than diagnostic, there were as many as 450 people living there. Now there are just 90 permanent residents, Sander tells me. They must be severely affected by the disorder to qualify for admission.

But understanding the condition – even in the 21st century, when it seems that medicine is so advanced – is extremely difficult. Sander, one of the leading experts in the field, confesses that offering treatment too often feels like firing “a blunderbuss”. Drugs are designed to work for a wide variety of conditions; as he tells me, drug companies want a product that works as broadly as possible, because that will bring in the most income. If you have to develop drugs that are designed for a small number of patients, that’s very expensive.

Furthermore, the causes of epilepsy – like so much else about the workings of the brain – are still little understood. Seizures happen when there is a sudden interruption in how the brain normally works but what provokes this is often a mystery, unless fits are brought on by brain injury or a tumour. Epilepsy may be hereditary but this, too, can be hard to discern, as the condition was often kept secret in families.

“I myself feel like a shaman at times,” Sander says, “because you are working in the dark and you hope that what you do will work. Dear Mary, I say, or dear John, I know you have this seizure type; we’ll try this drug and it may work. We don’t know why, if it does; and in the best-case scenario I can offer a 50 per cent chance that it will work. So I could say that even if I tried herbal tea with that person, I might get the same outcome.”

Sander told me that he didn’t expect to see or find anything in the tests I had at Chalfont: a 24-hour EEG, an MRI scan, memory and psychological tests. But, he said, at least if something about my condition changed for the worse in the future, we would have a baseline from which to work.




Even when drug treatment is successful, there can be problems. Colin Grant’s book is not only a history of epilepsy and the way it has been perceived and treated across cultures and centuries; it is also the story of his younger brother Christopher, who died as a result of epilepsy nearly a decade ago. A Smell of Burning paints a portrait of Christopher as a vivid and original young man who resisted treatment for his condition because the drugs he was given left him, as neurologists say, “knocked off”: dulled, sedated, his sense of self disrupted.

“Many people I spoke to said they would rather risk the occasional fit, or seizure, and be fully, 100 per cent alive and articulate than have a life that was – well, living at only 80 per cent,” Grant tells me when we meet. “I think that’s a very human response. But with Christopher, it drove his doctors and my siblings and my parents mad. They couldn’t understand it.”

It is Sander’s hope that the blunderbuss approach that Christopher resisted will change in the next decade or so. “It’s very important to put epilepsy in context,” he says. “Epilepsy is not a disease on its own. It’s a symptom, really a complex of symptoms. So in the old days, for instance, anaemia was a symptom complex” – that is, the aggregate of signs associated with the whole picture of a disease – “[but] it’s now just a symptom. We wouldn’t assess someone saying, ‘We’re going to find out why you have anaemia.’ We want to know what the anaemia is a symptom of, and then have a treatment for the cause. We have not reached that stage with epilepsy. Things will change in the next five or ten years, with progress in genomics – and then we’ll have a much better diagnosis.”

Yet even today, without such developments, when it comes to finding out the causes of epilepsy and how it might best be treated, the Sir William Gowers Centre offers a high level of sophistication. Magnetic resonance imaging (MRI) uses strong magnetic fields and radio waves to produce detailed images of the inside of the body; many hospitals have this technology but, as Sander explains, imaging departments may have to do heads, fingers and livers, all in a day. “So you might not be able to do the most protocols for imaging as you can do in a place that specialises. Our scanner is set up to do epilepsy only. A good analogy is with an orange: if you slice an orange in two planes, you’re likely to miss a seed, especially if you do your slices 5mm apart. But if you do a scan in several planes, and you do it to half a millimetre, you’ll find the seed.”

Some forms of epilepsy can be treated with surgery and the Chalfont Centre is the main facility in the UK for those who undergo these procedures. Sander sounds a note of caution. “Many patients, when they arrive, have spoken to Dr Google, and so they hear that this treatment is out there. But often [they have] very unrealistic [expectations]. More often than not, I have to tell them, ‘Sorry, you are not a candidate for this.’ Or someone is a good candidate, but they’re afraid.”

The neurosurgeon Henry Marsh echoes Sander’s sentiments. There is “no reliable data” on the percentage of patients who are suitable for such surgery, “partly because it is a question of judgement as to when epilepsy is judged ‘refractory’ – ie, not responding adequately to drug treatment –and also how early on you should consider surgery in such cases. Probably fewer than 5 per cent of people with epilepsy will be considered for surgical treatment,” he says.

Deciding to operate – as Marsh writes in his memoir, Do No Harm – is always a hugely complex, if not the most complex, part of the process. To come to such a decision, “You need an epilepsy neurologist, a neurosurgeon, a psychologist, a neurophysiologist and a neuro-radiologist. You need to find where the epilepsy is coming from. It is not always coming from an abnormality seen on the brain scan. You may need to insert electrodes into the brain, or on to the surface of the brain, to try to trace where the fit starts. You then need to decide whether it is safe to remove that part of the brain.”

Colin Grant observes this caution directly when, in the course of researching A Smell of Burning, he attends a review meeting at Queen Square of the kind that Marsh describes. Six cases are discussed; none is put forward for surgery. The team, he writes, “had erred on the side of ‘bad brain is better than no brain’”.

For the rest, such as myself, there is the prospect of a lifetime on anti-epileptic drugs. This works for about 70 per cent of patients, according to the Epilepsy Society. I am fortunate that my treatment has been successful and smooth. My seizures have stopped completely and I can sense – I don’t quite know how – that I won’t have one. I realised that, after my seizures returned (and before I went back on medication), they were always in the offing, even if I wasn’t having one. This is hard to explain, but now that I’m on medication, I just know the seizures aren’t “there”. I now see Professor Sander as a patient only once a year.

There are, however, complications to treating epilepsy other than the problems of non-compliance and the risks of surgery. Cultural attitudes to the condition vary widely and, as both Grant and Sander relate, even today there are many people who believe that epilepsy is a result of spirit possession or a curse. Grant’s family members were devout churchgoers and belonged to a Pentecostal congregation. When Christopher was 19 he had a seizure one Sunday morning. Grant writes that he arrived at church to find the congregation “weeping and wailing whilst the two elders called upon God to free Christopher from the devil’s grip”.

This is a situation that Sander confronts more often than you might think. He tells me the story of a young man who works in the City. “He has epilepsy, and he’s my patient. It was very difficult to convince him about drugs until I found out I could say, ‘Well, this drug – djinns don’t like it.’ He comes from an Asian background and his aunties [and] his mother would say, ‘This a djinn,’ when he had a seizure. So I promised him that the djinns don’t like this drug. And he came back and said: ‘You were right.’ But one of my registrars at the time argued that this was unethical, to engage with this belief. I said to the registrar that I’m only with the patient for 15 or 20 minutes. He will go back to his mother, his aunties; they will carry on talking for the next six months about the djinns. So I don’t stand a chance unless I do, too.”

Grant says almost exactly the same thing to me about his own mother. “My way of thinking would jar with her. She has a way of understanding that’s developed over many, many years. You can’t disabuse someone of that overnight.”




I understand the resistance to the term “epileptic”. It implies that the condition is definitive; that the whole person – my whole person – is folded ­inside the experience of seizure. Those with the condition have fought hard, over centuries, over millennia and into the present day, to live ordinary lives, to hold down jobs, to marry, to have children.

Yet I accept the term, too. I know that I would not choose to be without it. Certainly, I would not be who I am, who I consider myself to be, without it. I think it was what made me a writer: not only because I have tried and failed, over and over again, to describe what is going on inside my skull when I have a seizure, but also because I feel it has given me a profound understanding of the subjective nature of consciousness.

Confronted with the great difficulty that so many with epilepsy face, I know this seems like speaking my privilege, as the saying goes. Yet this is the truth of my experience. Maybe, I find myself thinking, it is the truest thing about me.

For more information about the condition, visit:

Erica Wagner is a New Statesman contributing writer and a judge of the 2014 Man Booker Prize. A former literary editor of the Times, her books include Ariel's Gift: Ted Hughes, Sylvia Plath and the Story of “Birthday Letters” and Seizure.

This article first appeared in the 29 September 2016 issue of the New Statesman, May’s new Tories