医话 — yī huà, physician’s talks — is a real Chinese literary form, and an old one. A working doctor keeps a notebook: a case that went strangely, a line from the canon that turned out to mean something different in practice, an argument with a colleague, the food a household in one particular street eats in August. It is not a textbook and it is not a case record. It is the thinking that sits between them, written down before it is lost.
We have kept the form because it fits what we do. A reading is a private document written for one person, and it has to stay short. The journal is where the reasoning behind those documents can be laid out properly, with the sources named, the dates given and the weak parts admitted to. If an idea in this tradition is two thousand years old but has never been shown to be a mechanism, we would rather say so in an essay than quietly leave the impression uncorrected in a report.
Our grandfather opened the clinic in 1987 and wrote his notes by hand in ruled exercise books, one for each year. Several of the arguments in these essays come out of those books, including the pot at the back of the winter stove and the forty years of telling people to soak their feet. The English is ours. The observations are older than we are.
The house standard
Four rules, and we would like to be held to them.
- Every claim carries its source. Book, author, date, and where in the book. Not “ancient texts”.
- Every Chinese term is glossed in English the first time it appears. Characters are here as citation, not as decoration that means nothing to the reader.
- Where the tradition is a metaphor, we say so. The organ clock, the fire under the pot, the vat in the middle of the body — these are descriptive schemes built from bedside observation. We use them because they organise what people report, and we do not present them as physiology.
- Every essay says where it stops. There is a marked paragraph near the end of each one listing what belongs with a clinician licensed where you live, in person, this week.