9/1/2018 Another School Year: Why?

By John Ciardi – Jon Boeckenstedt's Admissions Weblog

Another School Year: Why?

There was a time when even the faculty knew what made a college. From the time the university
tradition took form in the Renaissance, until the time the faculty committees were first heard to discuss
“Education for Modern Living,” a professor could afford to be downright about the classics, philosophy,
history, theology, mathematics, the sciences, and language study. Whether the student meant to be a
teacher, preacher, doctor, lawyer, or scientist, the core of his training was essentially the same.

Within the last fifty years, however, colleges have been adding new courses at a fantastic rate. Consult
a college’s catalog for the academic year 1900-1901 and then consult one for 1950-1951. You will find
that where fifty courses were offered in the earlier catalogue, two hundred and fifty are offered in the
later one. This increase in specialization is, of course, implicit in the nature of the twentieth century
technology. Much of it is absolutely necessary if the wheels of modern living are to be kept turning.
Nevertheless, we on the faculty have had many occasions for head scratching as we read of new
developments in education. We have seen the process one of my former colleagues described as
“making Harvard the second-best engineering school in Cambridge,” and we have seen MIT working
to make itself the New Athens of the Humanities. John Mason Brown once described the MIT process
as “humanizing the scientist.” The Harvard process he described as “simonizing the humanist.”

Nevertheless even a man as dull and insensitive as a professor has something in mind as he ponders
this exploding curriculum and as he faces each new school year. What is a college for?

Let me tell you one of the earliest disasters in my career as a teacher. It was January of 1940 and I
was fresh out of graduate school starting my first semester at the University of Kansas City. Part of the
reading for the freshman English course was Hamlet. Part of the student body was a beanpole with
hair on top who came into my class, sat down, folded his arms, and looked at me as if to say: “All right,
damn you, teach me something.” Two weeks later we started Hamlet. Three weeks later he came into
my office with his hands on his hips. It is easy to put your hands on your hips if you are not carrying
books, and this one was an unburdened soul. “Look,” he said, “I came here to be a pharmacist. Why
do I have to read this stuff?” And not having a book of his own to point to, he pointed at mine which
was lying on the desk.

New as I was to the faculty, I could have told this specimen a number of things. I could have pointed
out that he had enrolled, not in a drugstore-mechanics school, but in a college, and that at the end of
this course, he meant to reach for a scroll that read Bachelor of Science. It would not read: Qualified
Pill-Grinding Technician. It would certify that he had specialized in pharmacy and had attained a
certain minimum qualification, but it would further certify that he had been exposed to some of the
ideas mankind has generated within its history. That is to say, he had not entered a technical training
school, but a university, and that in universities students enroll for both training and education.

I could have told him all this, but it was fairly obvious he wasn’t going to be around long enough for it
to matter: at the rate he was going, the first marking period might reasonably be expected to blow him
toward the employment agency.

Nevertheless, I was young and I had a high sense of duty and I tried to put it this way: “For the rest of
your life,” I said, “your days are going to average out to about twenty-four hours. They will be a little
shorter when you are in love, and a little longer when you are out of love, but the average will tend to
hold. For eight of those hours, more or less, you will be asleep, and I assume you need neither
education nor training to manage to get through that third of your life.

“Then for about eight hours of each working day, you will, I hope, be usefully employed. Assume you
have gone through pharmacy school—or engineering, or aggie, or law school, or whatever—during
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those eight hours you will be using your professional skills. You will see to it during this third of your life
that the cyanide stays out of the aspirin, that the bull doesn’t jump the fence, or that your client doesn’t
go to the electric chair as a result of your incompetence. These are all useful pursuits, they involve
skills every man must respect, and they can all bring you good basic satisfactions. Along with
everything else, they will probably be what sets your table, supports your wife, and rears your children.
They will be your income, and may it always suffice.

“But having finished the day’s work what do you do with those other eight hours—the other third of
your life? Let’s say you go home to your family. What sort of family are you raising? Will the children
ever be exposed to a reasonably penetrating idea at home? We all think of ourselves as citizens of a
great democracy. Democracies can exist, however, only as long as they remain intellectually alive. Will
you be presiding over a family that maintains some basic contact with the great continuity of
democratic intellect? Or is your family going to be strictly penny-ante and beer on ice? Will there be a
book in the house? Will there be a painting a reasonably sensitive man can look at without
shuddering? Will your family be able to speak English and to talk about an idea? Will the kids ever get
to hear Bach?”

That is about what I said, but this particular pest was not interested. “Look,” he said, “you professors
raise your kids your way; I’ll take care of my own. Me, I’m out to make money.”

“I hope you make a lot of it,” I told him, “because you’re going to be badly stuck for something to do
when you’re not signing checks.”

Fourteen years later, I am still teaching, and I am here to tell you that the business of the college is not
only to train you, but to put you in touch with what the best human minds have thought. If you have no
time for Shakespeare, for a basic look at philosophy, for the community of the fine arts, for that lesson
of man’s development we call history—then you have no business being in college. You are on your
way to being that new species of mechanized savage, the Push-button Neanderthal. Our colleges
inevitably graduate a number of such life forms, but it cannot be said that they went to college; rather,
the college went through them—without making contact.

No one gets to be a human being unaided. There is not enough time in a single lifetime to invent for
oneself everything one needs to know in order to be a civilized human.

Assume, for example, that you want to be a physicist. You pass the great stone halls, of say, MIT, and
there cut into stone are the names of the master scientists. The chances are that few of you will leave
your names to be cut into those stones. Yet any one of you who managed to stay awake through part
of a high school course in physics, knows more about physics than did many of those great makers of
the past. You know more because they left you what they knew. The first course in any science is
essentially a history course. You have to begin by learning what the past learned for you. Except as a
man has entered the past of the race he has no function in civilization.

And as this is true of the techniques of mankind, so is it true of mankind’s spiritual resources. Most of
these resources, both technical and spiritual, are stored in books. Books, the arts, and the techniques
of science, are man’s peculiar accomplishment.

When you have read a book, you have added to your human experience. Read Homer and your mind
includes a piece of Homer’s mind. Through books you can acquire at least fragments of the mind and
experience of Virgil, Dante, Shakespeare—the list is endless. For a great book is necessarily a gift: it
offers you a life you have not time to live yourself, and it takes you into a world you have not time to
travel in literal time. A civilized human mind is, in essence, one that contains many such lives and
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many such worlds. If you are too much in a hurry, or too arrogantly proud of your own limitations, to
accept as a gift to your humanity some pieces of the minds of Sophocles, of Aristotle, of Chaucer—
and right down the scale and down the ages to Yeats, Einstein, E.B. White, and Ogden Nash—then
you may be protected by the laws governing manslaughter, and you may be a voting entity, but you
are neither a developed human being nor a useful citizen of a democracy.

I think it was La Rochefoucauld who said that most people would never fall in love if they hadn’t read
about it. He might have said that no one would ever manage to become a human if he hadn’t read
about it.

I speak, I am sure, for the faculty of the liberal arts colleges and for the faculties of the specialized
schools as well, when I say that a university has no real existence and no real purpose except as it
succeeds in putting you in touch, both as specialists and as humans, with those human minds your
human mind needs to include. The faculty, by its very existence, says implicitly: “We have been aided
by many people, and by many books, and by the arts, in our attempt to make ourselves some sort of
storehouse of human experience. We are here to make available to you, as best we can, that
experience.”

I hope you will want to enter those minds and those worlds that books can give you. That is essentially
what we have to offer. On the letterheads and on the banners, this is Rutgers University. It is a great
university and our pride in it is part of its truest existence. Yet, once inside the letterhead and the
banner, what we really are, is the Rutgers Reading and Discussion Society.

I hope you will enjoy the meetings. I hope we won’t have to cancel too many memberships. Good luck,
and good learning.

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