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The Last Professor
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In previous columns and in a recent book I have argued
that higher education, properly understood, is distinguished
by the absence of a direct and designed relationship
between its activities and measurable effects in the world.
This is a very old idea that has received periodic re-formulations. Here is a statement by the philosopher
Michael Oakeshott that may stand as a representative
example: “There is an important difference between
learning which is concerned with the degree of
understanding necessary to practice a skill, and learning
which is expressly focused upon an enterprise of under-
standing and explaining.”
Understanding and explaining what? The answer is understanding and explaining anything as
long as the exercise is not performed with the purpose of
intervening in the social and political crises of the moment,
as long, that is, as the activity is not regarded as instru-mental – valued for its contribution to something more
important than itself.
This view of higher education as an enterprise characterized
by a determined inutility has often been challenged, and the
debates between its proponents and those who argue for a
more engaged university experience are lively and apparently
perennial. The question such debates avoid is whether the
Oakeshottian ideal (celebrated before him by Aristotle, Kant
and Max Weber, among others) can really flourish in today’s
educational landscape. It may be fun to argue its merits (as I
have done), but that argument may be merely academic – in
the pejorative sense of the word – if it has no support in the
real world from which it rhetorically distances itself. In today’s
climate, does it have a chance?
In a new book, “The Last Professors: The Corporate University
and the Fate of the Humanities,” Frank Donoghue (as it
happens, a former student of mine) asks that question and
answers “No.”
Donoghue begins by challenging the oft-repeated declaration that liberal arts education in general
and the humanities in particular face a crisis, a word that
suggests an interruption of a normal state of affairs and
the possibility of restoring the natural order of things.
“Such a vision of restored stability,” says Donoghue, “is a
delusion” because the conditions to which many seek a
return – healthy humanities departments populated by tenure-track professors who discuss books with adoring students
in a cloistered setting – have largely vanished. Except in a
few private wealthy universities (functioning almost as
museums), the splendid and supported irrelevance of
humanist inquiry for its own sake is already a thing of the
past. In “ two or three generations,” Donoghue predicts,
“humanists . . . will become an insignificant percentage
of the country’s university instructional workforce.”
How has this happened?
According to Donoghue, it’s been happening for a long
time, at least since 1891, when Andrew Carnegie con-
gratulated the graduates of the Pierce College of Business
for being “ fully occupied in obtaining a knowledge of short-
hand and typewriting” rather than wasting time “upon dead
languages.”
Industrialist Richard Teller Crane was even more pointed in
his 1911 dismissal of what humanists call the “life of the
mind.” No one who has “a taste for literature has the right
to be happy” because “the only men entitled to happiness . .
. are those who are useful.”
The opposition between this view and the view held by the
heirs of Matthew Arnold’s conviction that poetry will save
us could not be more stark. But Donoghue counsels us not
to think that the two visions are locked in a struggle whose
outcome is uncertain. One vision, rooted in an “ethic of
productivity” and efficiency, has, he tells us, already won the
day; and the proof is that in the very colleges and universities
where the life of the mind is routinely celebrated, the material
conditions of the workplace are configured by the business
model that scorns it.
The best evidence for this is the shrinking number of tenured
and tenure-track faculty and the corresponding rise of
adjuncts, part-timers more akin to itinerant workers than to
embedded professionals.
Humanities professors like to think that this is a temporary
imbalance and talk about ways of redressing it, but Donoghue
insists that this development, planned by no one but now well
under way, cannot be reversed. Universities under increasing
financial pressure, he explains, do not “hire the most ex-
perienced teachers, but rather the cheapest teachers.” Tenured
and tenure-track teachers now make up only 35 percent of the
pedagogical workforce and “this number is steadily falling.”
Once adjuncts are hired to deal with an expanding student body
(and the student body is always expanding), budgetary planners
find it difficult to dispense with the savings they have come to rely
on; and “as a result, an adjunct workforce, however imperceptible
its origins . . . has now mushroomed into a significant fact of
academic life.”
What is happening in traditional universities where the ethos of
the liberal arts is still given lip service is the forthright policy of
forprofit universities, which make no pretense of valuing what
used to be called the “higher learning.” John Sperling, founder
of the group that gave us Phoenix University, is refreshingly blunt:
“Coming here is not a rite of passage. We are not trying to develop
value systems or go in for that ‘expand their minds’” nonsense.
The for-profit university is the logical end of a shift from a model
of education centered in an individual professor who delivers
insight and inspiration to a model that begins and ends with the
imperative to deliver the information and skills necessary to gain
employment.
In this latter model , the mode of delivery – a disc, a computer s
creen, a video hookup – doesn’t matter so long as delivery occurs.
Insofar as there are reallife faculty in the picture, their credentials
and publications (if they have any) are beside the point, for they
are just “delivery people.”
Sperling understands the difficulty of achieving accreditation for
his institution as a proxy “for cultural battles between defenders
of 800 years of educational (and largely religious) traditions, and
innovation that was based on the ideas of the marketplace –
transparency, efficiency, productivity and accountability.”
Those ideas have now triumphed (Carnegie and Crane are victorious),
and this means, Donoghue concludes, “that all fields deemed
impractical, such as philosophy, art history, and literature, will
henceforth face a constant danger of being deemed unnecessary.
” And as a corollary “professors will come to be seen by everyone
(not just those outside the academy) as unaffordable anomalies.”
In his preface, Donoghue tells us that he will “offer nothing in the
way of uplifting solutions to the problems [he] describes.” In the
end, however, he can’t resist recommending something and he
advises humanists to acquire “a thorough familiarity with how
the university works,” for “only by studying the institutional
histories of scholarly research, of tenure, of academic status,
and . . . of the everchanging college curriculum, can we
prepare ourselves for the future.”
But – and this is to his credit – he doesn’t hold out the slightest
hope that this future we may come to understand will have a
place in it for us.
People sometimes believe that they were born too late or too
early. After reading Donoghue’s book, I feel that I have timed
it just right, for it seems that I have had a career that would
not have been available to me had I entered the world 50 years
later. Just lucky, I guess.
Stanley Fish, the NY Times
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Zuìhòu De Lǎoshī
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