Over the past decade the Spanish influenza pandemic of 1918–19 has commanded an increasing amount of attention from professionals and laypersons alike. In 1997 pathologist Jeffery Taubenberger and his team published the first partial genetic sequencing of the virus's RNA, bringing science one step closer to unlocking the mysteries of a disease that in 1918 dealt the first major blow to what Eugenia Tognotti has called the “scientific triumphalism” of the germ theory of disease. The year 1918 was an era marked by the recent and astounding discoveries of the causative agents of diseases like cholera (1884), anthrax (1877), and tuberculosis (1882), and it was widely believed that laboratory trials would finally result in the isolation of the pathogenic agent of influenza. Moreover, a likely candidate already existed. On the heels of the nineteenth century's last large-scale flu epidemic in 1892, Richard Pfeiffer proposed that influenza was caused by Haemophilus influenzae, the bacillus later named after him. But his hypothesis was not universally accepted, and during the 1918–19 pandemic, the definitive case for Pfeiffer's bacillus failed to materialize, as laboratory studies produced no conclusive evidence that it was the microorganism responsible for causing the flu. Not until 1933 were Patrick Laidlaw and his team able successfully to isolate a flu virus from humans.

Despite the importance of Laidlaw's discovery, it was merely the first step in addressing the many peculiarities of the Spanish flu. Although the pathogen responsible for causing influenza had been identified, numerous questions about the 1918 virus remained unanswered: why did it yield a W-shaped mortality curve, why was it extremely virulent, what was its etiology? By revealing the genetic code of the virus, Taubenberger and his colleagues’ research held out the legitimate hope that these questions finally could be answered. The urgency to obtain answers and, more concretely, remedies (most notably in the form of a vaccine) escalated when it was discovered that the Spanish flu originated from an avian source and that it was basically the genetic “mother of all [influenza] pandemics.”

Introduction

Public service organisations are preoccupied with understanding how good performance can be achieved: what matters is what works. But delivering high-quality services requires a far wider array of evidence than just that on effectiveness – we need, for example, knowledge about the scale, source and structuring of social problems; practical ‘know-how’ to support effective programme implementation in local contexts; and insights into the relationships between values and policy directions.

Research can make an important contribution to the development of public services and policy programmes, and it can enrich debates about the nature of social problems and what works in addressing them. However, such positive research impacts are far from routine, and the impact of research is not always positive. Negative impacts may, for example, arise in situations where tentative or highly specific findings are seized upon too readily or applied too widely.

Despite this, the overzealous use of research is not normally considered to be the main problem. Quite the opposite; researchers and others are often disappointed that clear findings are overlooked or ignored when decisions are made about the direction and delivery of services. This view is supported by many studies that have found that practice often lags behind the best available evidence about what works and that it may remain out of step for quite some time.

Aviation and social challenge

Icarus, in the classical fable and Book IV of John Gower's Confessio Amantis, flies too high on artificial wings, against the advice of his father Daedalus. As the wax holding his flying machine together melts in the heat of the sun, Icarus goes into tailspin, plunges into the sea and drowns. Phaeton, on the other hand, again in contravention of paternal wisdom, pilots a flying chariot too low; he also submits to a watery death. The tales of these early aviators were regularly told together in the Middle Ages and operated as a double warning against the dangers of contravening the laws of nature and patriarchal authority. In a discussion of altitude these stories configure natural law on a vertical axis; the warning is specifically about violating the hierarchical structures of social condition. Gower's poem does not deviate from this medieval tradition as shown in the link between the tales of the two mythological airmen:

Icarus and Phaeton warn those who would abandon the fixity of social categories that alternatives can be insubstantial and mutable zones of risk.

My title, of course, refers to Erica Jong's 1974 novel Fear of Flying. Written at the height of the second wave feminist movement, Jong's novel tells the story of Isadora Wing, a young Jewish woman trying to find her feet, or rather wings, amongst the contradictory and changing models of feminine behaviour at that time.