8. INJELITITIS,
OR PALSIED PARALYSIS
WE FIND
everywhere a type of organization (administrative, commercial, or
academic) in which the higher officials are plodding and dull, those
less senior are active only in intrigue against each other, and the
junior men are frustrated or frivolous. Little is being attempted.
Nothing is being achieved. And in contemplating this sorry picture,
we conclude that those in control have done their best, struggled
against adversity, and have finally admitted defeat. It now appears
from the results of recent investigation, that no such failure need
be assumed. In a high percentage of the moribund institutions so far
examined the final state of coma is something gained of set purpose
and after prolonged effort. It is the result, admittedly, of a
disease, but of a disease that is largely self-induced. From the
first signs of the condition, the progress of the disease has been
encouraged, the causes aggravated, and the symptoms welcomed. It is
the disease of induced inferiority, called Injelititis. It is a
commoner ailment than is often supposed, and the diagnosis is far
easier than the cure.
Our study of this
organizational paralysis begins, logically, with a description of
the course of the disease from the first signs to the final coma.
The second stage of our inquiry concerns symptoms and diagnosis. The
third stage should properly include some reference to treatment, but
little is known about this. Nor is much likely to be discovered in
the immediate future, for the tradition of British medical research
is entirely opposed to any emphasis on this part of the subject.
British medical specialists are usually quite content to trace the
symptoms and define the cause. It is the French, by contrast, who
begin by describing the treatment and discuss the diagnosis later,
if at all. We feel bound to adhere in this to the British method,
which may not help the patient but which is unquestionably more
scientific. To travel hopefully is better than to arrive.
The first sign of
danger is represented by the appearance in the organization's
hierarchy of an individual who combines in himself a high
concentration of incompetence and jealousy. Neither quality is
significant in itself and most people have a certain proportion of
each. But when these two qualities reach a certain
concentration--represented at present by the formula I3J5--there
is a chemical reaction. The two elements fuse, producing a new
substance that we have termed "injelitance." The presence of this
substance can be safely inferred from the actions of any individual
who, having failed to make anything of his own department, tries
constantly to interfere with other departments and gain control of
the central administration. The specialist who observes this
particular mixture of failure and ambition will at once shake his
head and murmur, "Primary or idiopathic injelitance." The symptoms,
as we shall see, are quite unmistakable.
The next or
secondary stage in the progress of the disease is reached when the
infected individual gains complete or partial control of the central
organization. In many instances this stage is reached without any
period of primary infection, the individual having actually entered
the organization at that level. The injelitant individual is easily
recognizable at this stage from the persistence with which he
struggles to eject all those abler than himself, as also from his
resistance to the appointment or promotion of anyone who might prove
abler in course of time. He dare not say, "Mr. Asterisk is too
able," so he says, "Asterisk? Clever perhaps--but is he sound? I
incline to prefer Mr. Cypher." He dare not say, "Mr. Asterisk makes
me feel small," so he says, "Mr. Cypher appears to me to have the
better judgment." Judgment is an interesting word that signifies in
this context the opposite of intelligence; it means, in fact, doing
what was done last time. So Mr. Cypher is promoted and Mr. Asterisk
goes elsewhere. The central administration gradually fills up with
people stupider than the chairman, director, or manager. If the head
of the organization is second-rate, he will see to it that his
immediate staff are all third-rate; and they will, in turn, see to
it that their subordinates are fourth-rate. There will soon be an
actual competition in stupidity, people pretending to be even more
brainless than they are.
The next or
tertiary stage in the onset of this disease is reached when there is
no spark of intelligence left in the whole organization from top to
bottom. This is the state of coma we described in our first
paragraph. When that stage has been reached the institution is, for
all practical purposes, dead. It may remain in a coma for twenty
years. It may quietly disintegrate. It may even, finally, recover.
Cases of recovery are rare. It may be thought odd that recovery
without treatment should be possible. The process is quite natural,
nevertheless, and closely resembles the process by which various
living organisms develop a resistance to poisons that are at first
encounter fatal. It is as if the whole institution had been sprayed
with a DDT solution guaranteed to eliminate all ability found in its
way. For a period of years this practice achieves the desired
result. Eventually, however, individuals develop an immunity. They
conceal their ability under a mask of imbecile good humor. The
result is that the operatives assigned to the task of
ability-elimination fail (through stupidity) to recognize ability
when they see it. An individual of merit penetrates the outer
defenses and begins to make his way toward the top. He wanders on,
babbling about golf and giggling feebly, losing documents and
forgetting names, and looking just like everyone else. Only when he
has reached high rank does he suddenly throw off the mask and appear
like the demon king among a crowd of pantomime fairies. With shrill
screams of dismay the high executives find ability right there in
the midst of them. It is too late by then to do anything about it.
The damage has been done, the disease is in retreat, and full
recovery is possible over the next ten years. But these instances of
natural cure are extremely rare. In the more usual course of events,
the disease passes through the recognized stages and becomes, as it
would seem, incurable.
We have seen what
the disease is. It now remains to show by what symptoms its presence
can be detected. It is one thing to detail the spread of the
infection in an imaginary case, classified from the start. It is
quite a different thing to enter a factory, barracks, office, or
college and recognize the symptoms at a glance. We all know how an
estate agent will wander round a vacant house when acting for the
purchaser. It is only a question of time before he throws open a
cupboard or kicks a baseboard and exclaims, "Dry rot!" (acting for
the vendor, he would lose the key of the cupboard while drawing
attention to the view from the window). In the same way a political
scientist can recognize the symptoms of Injelititis even in its
primary stage. He will pause, sniff, and nod wisely, and it should
be obvious at once that he knows. But how does he know? How
can he tell that injelitance has set in? If the original source of
the infection were present, the diagnosis would be easier, but it is
still quite possible when the germ of the disease is on holiday. His
influence can be detected in the atmosphere. It can be detected,
above all, in certain remarks that will be made by others, as thus:
"It would be a mistake for us to attempt too much. We cannot compete
with Toprank. Here in Lowgrade we do useful work, meeting the needs
of the country. Let us be content with that." Or again, "We do not
pretend to be in the first flight. It is absurd the way these people
at Much-Striving talk of their work, just as if they were in the
Toprank class." Or finally, "Some of our younger men have
transferred to Toprank--one or two even to Much-Striving. It is
probably their wisest plan. We are quite happy to let them succeed
in that way. An exchange of ideas and personnel is a good
thing--although, to be sure, the few men we have had from Toprank
have been rather disappointing. We can only expect the people they
have thrown out. Ah well, we must not grumble. We always avoid
friction when we can. And, in our humble way we can claim to be
doing a good job."
What do these
remarks suggest? They suggest--or, rather, they clearly
indicate--that the standard of achievement has been set too low.
Only a low standard is desired and one still lower is acceptable.
The directives issuing from a second-rate chief and addressed to his
third-rate executives speak only of minimum aims and ineffectual
means. A higher standard of competence is not desired, for an
efficient organization would be beyond the chief's power to control.
The motto, "Ever third-rate" has been inscribed over the main
entrance in letters of gold. Third-rateness has become a principle
of policy. It will be observed, however, that the existence of
higher standards is still recognized. There remains at this primary
stage a hint of apology, a feeling of uneasiness when Toprank is
mentioned. Neither this apology nor unease lasts for long. The
second stage of the disease comes on quickly and it is this we must
now describe.
The secondary
stage is recognized by its chief symptom, which is Smugness. The
aims have been set low and have therefore been largely achieved. The
target has been set up within ten yards of the firing point and the
scoring has therefore been high. The directors have done what they
set out to do. This soon fills them with self-satisfaction. They set
out to do something and they have done it. They soon forget that it
was a small effort to gain a small result. They observe only that
they have succeeded--unlike those people at Much-Striving. They
become increasingly smug and their smugness reveals itself in
remarks such as this: "The chief is a sound man and very clever when
you get to know him. He never says much--that is not his way--but he
seldom makes a mistake." (These last words can be said with justice
of someone who never does anything at all.) Or this: "We rather
distrust brilliance here. These clever people can be a dreadful
nuisance, upsetting established routine and proposing all sorts of
schemes that we have never seen tried. We obtain splendid results by
simple common sense and teamwork." And finally this: "Our canteen is
something we are really rather proud of. We don't know how the
caterer can produce so good a lunch at the price. We are lucky to
have him!" This last remark is made as we sit at a table covered
with dirty oilcloth, facing an uneatable, nameless mess on a plate
and shuddering at the sight and smell of what passes for coffee. In
point of fact, the canteen reveals more than the office. Just as for
a quick verdict we judge a private house by inspection of the WC (to
find whether there is a spare toilet roll), just as we judge a hotel
by the state of the cruet, so we judge a larger institution by the
appearance of the canteen. If the decoration is in dark brown and
pale green; if the curtains are purple (or absent); if there are no
flowers in sight; if there is barley in the soup (with or without a
dead fly); if the menu is one of hash and mold; and if the
executives are still delighted with everything--why, then the
institution is in a pretty bad way. For self-satisfaction, in such a
case, has reached the point at which those responsible cannot tell
the difference between food and filth. This is smugness made
absolute.
The tertiary and
last stage of the disease is one in which apathy has taken the place
of smugness. The executives no longer boast of their efficiency as
compared with some other institution. They have forgotten that any
other institution exists. They have ceased to eat in the canteen,
preferring now to bring sandwiches and scatter their desks with the
crumbs. The bulletin boards carry notices about the concert that
took place four years ago, Mr. Brown's office has a nameplate
saying, "Mr. Smith." Mr. Smith's door is marked, "Mr. Robinson," in
faded ink on an adhesive luggage label. The broken windows have been
repaired with odd bits of cardboard. The electric light switches
give a slight but painful shock when touched. The whitewash is
flaking off the ceiling and the paint is blotchy on the walls. The
elevator is out of order and the cloakroom tap cannot be turned off.
Water from the broken skylight drips wide of the bucket placed to
catch it, and from somewhere in the basement comes the wail of a
hungry cat. The last stage of the disease has brought the whole
organization to the point of collapse. The symptoms of the disease
in this acute form are so numerous and evident that a trained
investigator can often detect them over the telephone without
visiting the place at all. When a weary voice answers "Ullo!" (that
most unhelpful of replies), the expert has often heard enough. He
shakes his head sadly as he replaces the receiver. "Well on in the
tertiary phase," he will mutter to himself, "and almost certainly
inoperable." It is too late to attempt any sort of treatment. The
institution is practically dead.
We have now
described this disease as seen from within and then again from
outside. We know now the origin, the progress, and the outcome of
the infection, as also the symptoms by which its presence is
detected. British medical skill seldom goes beyond that point in its
research. Once a disease has been identified, named, described, and
accounted for, the British are usually quite satisfied and ready to
investigate the next problem that presents itself. If asked about
treatment they look surprised and suggest the use of penicillin
preceded or followed by the extraction of all the patient's teeth.
It becomes clear at once that this is not an aspect of the subject
that interests them. Should our attitude be the same? Or should we
as political scientists consider what, if anything, can be done
about it? It would be premature, no doubt, to discuss any possible
treatment in detail, but it might be useful to indicate very
generally the lines along which a solution might be attempted.
Certain principles, at least, might be laid down. Of such
principles, the first would have to be this: a diseased institution
cannot reform itself. There are instances, we know, of a disease
vanishing without treatment, just as it appeared without warning;
but these cases are rare and regarded by the specialist as irregular
and undesirable. The cure, whatever its nature, must come from
outside. For a patient to remove his own appendix under a local
anaesthetic may be physically possible, but the practice is regarded
with disfavor and is open to many objections. Other operations lend
themselves still less to the patient's own dexterity. The first
principle we can safely enunciate is that the patient and the
surgeon should not be the same person. When an institution is in an
advanced state of disease, the services of a specialist are required
and even, in some instances, the services of the greatest living
authority: Parkinson himself. The fees payable may be very heavy
indeed, but in a case of this sort, expense is clearly no object. It
is a matter, after all, of life and death.
The second
principle we might lay down is this, that the primary stage of the
disease can be treated by a simple injection, that the secondary
stage can be cured in some instances by surgery, and that the
tertiary stage must be regarded at present as incurable. There was a
time when physicians used to babble about bottles and pills, but
this is mainly out of date. There was another period when they
talked more vaguely about psychology; but that too is out of date,
most of the psychoanalysts having since been certified as insane.
The present age is one of injections and incisions and it behooves
the political scientists to keep in step with the Faculty.
Confronted by a case of primary infection, we prepare a syringe
automatically and only hesitate as to what, besides water, it should
contain. In principle, the injection should contain some active
substance--but from which group should it be selected? A
kill-or-cure injection would contain a high proportion of
Intolerance, but this drug is difficult to procure and sometimes too
powerful to use. Intolerance is obtainable from the bloodstream of
regimental sergeant majors and is found to comprise two chemical
elements, namely: (a) the best is scarcely good enough (GGnth)
and (b) there is no excuse for anything (NEnth). Injected
into a diseased institution, the intolerant individual has a tonic
effect and may cause the organism to turn against the original
source of infection. While this treatment may well do good, it is by
no means certain that the cure will be permanent. It is doubtful,
that is to say, whether the infected substance will be actually
expelled from the system. Such information as we have rather leads
us to suppose that this treatment is merely palliative in the first
instance, the disease remaining latent though inactive. Some
authorities believe that repeated injections would result in a
complete cure, but others fear that repetition of the treatment
would set up a fresh irritation, only slightly less dangerous than
the original disease. Intolerance is a drug to be used, therefore,
with caution.
There exists a
rather milder drug called Ridicule, but its operation is uncertain,
its character unstable, and its effects too little known. There is
little reason to fear that any damage could result from an injection
of ridicule, but neither is it evident that a cure would result. It
is generally agreed that the injelitant individual will have
developed a thick protective skin, insensitive to ridicule. It may
well be that ridicule may tend to isolate the infection, but that is
as much as could be expected and more indeed than has been claimed.
We may note,
finally, that Castigation, which is easily obtainable, has been
tried in cases of this sort and not wholly without effect. Here
again, however, there are difficulties. This drug is an immediate
stimulus but can produce a result the exact opposite of what the
specialist intends. After a momentary spasm of activity, the
injelitant individual will often prove more supine than before and
just as harmful as a source of infection. If any use can be made of
castigation it will almost certainly be as one element in a
preparation composed otherwise of intolerance and ridicule, with
perhaps other drugs as yet untried. It only remains to point out
that this preparation does not as yet exist.
The secondary
stage of the disease we believe to be operable. Professional readers
will all have heard of the Nuciform Sack and of the work generally
associated with the name of Cutler Walpole. The operation first
performed by that great surgeon involves, simply, the removal of the
infected parts and the simultaneous introduction of new blood drawn
from a similar organism. This operation has sometimes succeeded. It
is only fair to add that it has also sometimes failed. The shock to
the system can be too great. The new blood may be unobtainable and
may fail, even when procured, to mingle with the blood previously in
circulation. On the other hand, this drastic method offers, beyond
question, the best chance of a complete cure.
The tertiary
stage presents us with no opportunity to do anything. The
institution is for all practical purposes dead. It can be founded
afresh but only with a change of name, a change of site, and an
entirely different staff. The temptation, for the economically
minded, is to transfer some portion of the original staff to the new
institution--in the name, for example, of continuity. Such a
transfusion would certainly be fatal, and continuity is the very
thing to avoid. No portion of the old and diseased foundation can be
regarded as free from infection. No staff, no equipment, no
tradition must be removed from the original site. Strict quarantine
should be followed by complete disinfection. Infected personnel
should be dispatched with a warm testimonial to such rival
institutions as are regarded with particular hostility. All
equipment and files should be destroyed without hesitation. As for
the buildings, the best plan is to insure them heavily and then set
them alight. Only when the site is a blackened ruin can we feel
certain that the germs of the disease are dead.
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