14 Years Ago Today: ​Sometimes, if rarely, smoking saves your life

By Moristotle

[This spot was originally occupied by a premature “Goines On” piece, “What about This Thing />called ‘Having a Thing’? (a sestina).” I realized a day or two later that it was far from ready – so far from ready that I felt ashamed to have posted it…so, I unpublished it and let the spot remain open for a couple of days. Today’s repeat of a 14-year-old post is offered in recompense. 

    I will publish a better version of that sestina in a week or two. Thank you for being kind.]

I found Bertrand Russell’s History of Western Philosophy such a good read, I decided to read his Autobiography as well. I’m enjoying it even more than his history of philosophy, and there have been many, many passages I’d have liked to share, and might have shared if I hadn’t been so preoccupied lately with moving out of our house of twenty-five years. Last night, for the first time in several weeks, I felt relatively relaxed, and today I feel up to reporting the following amusing passage. Soon after World War II, when Russell was about 75 years old, and

In the same year that I went to Germany, the Government sent me to Norway in the hope of inducing Norwegians to join an alliance against Russia. The place they sent me to was Trondheim. The weather was stormy and cold. We had to go by sea-plane from Oslo to Trondheim. When our plane touched down on the water it became obvious that something was amiss, but none of us in the plane knew what it was. We sat in the plane while it slowly sank. Small boats assembled round it and presently we were told to jump into the sea and swim to a boat—which all the people in my part of the plane did. We later learned that all the nineteen passengers in the non-smoking compartment had been killed. When the plane had hit the water a hole had been made in the plane and the water had rushed in. I had told a friend in Oslo who was finding me a place that he must find me a place where I could smoke, remarking jocularly, “If I cannot smoke, I shall die.” Unexpectedly, this turned out to be true. All those in the smoking compartment got out by the emergency exit window beside which I was sitting. We all swam to the boats which dared not approach too near for fear of being sucked under as the plane sank. We were rowed to shore to a place some miles from Trondheim and thence I was taken in a car to my hotel.
    Everybody showed me the utmost kindness and put me to be while my clothes dried. A group of students even dried my matches one by one. They asked me if I wanted anything and I replied, “Yes, a strong dose of brandy and a large cup of coffee.” The doctor, who arrived soon after, said that this was quite the right reply. The day was Sunday, on which day hotels in Norway were not allowed to supply liquor—but, as the need was medical, no objection was raised. Some amusement was caused when a clergyman supplied me with clerical clothing to wear till my clothes had dried. Everybody plied me with questions. A question even came by telephone from Copenhagen: a voice said, “When you were in the water, did you not think of mysticism and logic [which was the title of a book Russell published in 1917]?“ “No,”I said. “What did you think of?” the voice persisted. “I thought the water was cold.” I said and put down the receiver. [Volume III, 1944-1967, p. 21]

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