Universities have started banding together to negotiate favorable contracts with software vendors. With new effort, a group of them aims to exercise similar leverage with publishers on behalf of students.
The folklore of Indonesia and Thailand tells of a frog who is born under half of a coconut-shell bowl and lives out his life there. In time, he draws the only sensible conclusion: the inside of the shell is the whole universe.
“The moral judgment in the image,” writes Benedict Anderson in Life Beyond Boundaries: A Memoir (Verso), “is that the frog is narrow-minded, provincial, stay-at-home, and self-satisfied for no good reason. For my part, I stayed nowhere long enough to settle down in one place, unlike the proverbial frog.”
Anderson, a professor emeritus of international studies, government and Asia studies at Cornell University, wrote major studies of the history and culture of Southeast Asia. A certain degree of cosmopolitanism went with the fieldwork. But the boundaries within a society can be patrolled just as insistently as its geographical borders -- and in the case of academic specialties, the guards inspecting passports tend to be quite unapologetically suspicious.
In that regard, Anderson was an even more remarkable citizen of the world, for his death late last year has been felt as a loss in several areas of the humanities as well as at least a couple of the social sciences. Nearly all of this reflects what someone writing in a scholarly journal once dubbed “Benedict Anderson’s pregnant phrase” -- i.e., the main title of his 1983 work Imagined Communities: Reflections on the Origin and Spread of Nationalism, which treated the mass production of books and periodicals in vernacular languages (what he called “print capitalism”) as a catalytic factor in creating a shared sense of identity and, with it, the desire for national sovereignty.
By the 1990s, people were pursuing tangents from Anderson’s argument with ever more tenuous connection to nationalism -- and still less to the specific emphasis on print capitalism. Any group formed and energized by some form of mass communication might be treated as an imaginary community. Here one might do a search for “Benedict Anderson” and ”World of Warcraft” to see why the author came to think of his best-known title as “a pair of words from which the vampires of banality have by now sucked almost all the blood.” Even so, Imagined Communities has shown remarkable longevity, and its landmark status is clearly international: it had been translated into more than 30 languages as of 2009, when it appeared in a Thai edition.
The reader of Life Beyond Boundaries soon understands why Anderson eventually developed mixed feelings about his “pregnant phrase” and its spawn. His sense of scholarship, and of life itself, was that it ought to be a mode of open-ended exploration, of using what you’ve learned to figure out what you could learn. Establishing a widely known line of thought must have become frustrating once it’s assumed to represent the only direction in which you can move. Professional interest is not the only kind of interest; what it recognizes as knowledge is no measure of the world outside the shell.
Anderson wrote the memoir by request: a Japanese colleague asked for it as a resource to show students something of the conduct of scholarship abroad and to challenge the “needlessly timid” ethos fostered by Japanese professors’ “patriarchal attitude.” Long retired -- and evidently reassured by the thought that few of his American colleagues would ever see the book -- Anderson was wry and spot-on in recounting the unfamiliar and not always agreeable experience of American academic life as he found it after emigrating to the United States from England as a graduate student in the late 1950s. For one thing, his professors looked askance at his papers, where he might indulge in a sardonic remark if so inspired, or pursue a digressive point in his footnotes.
“In a friendly way,” he writes, “my teachers warned me to stop writing like this …. It was really hard for me to accept this advice, as in previous schools I had always been told that, in writing, ‘dullness’ was the thing to be avoided at all cost.” He also underscores the paradox that the pragmatic American disinterest in “grand theory” coexisted with an academic hunger for it, renewed on a seasonal basis:
“‘Theory,’ mirroring the style of late capitalism, has obsolescence built into it, in the manner of high-end commodities. In year X students had to read and more or less revere Theory Y while sharpening their teeth on passé Theory W. Not too many years later, they were told to sharpen their teeth on passé Theory Y, admire Theory Z, and forget about Theory W.”
Lest anyone assume this refers to the situation in the humanities, it’s worth clarifying that one example he gives is the “modernization theory” that once ruled the social sciences roost. And similar ridings of the trend wave also prevail in the choice of areas for research. The antidote, he found, came from leaving the academic coconut bowl to explore Indonesia, the Philippines and Thailand:
“I began to realize something fundamental about fieldwork: that it is useless to concentrate exclusively on one’s ‘research project.’ One has to be endlessly curious about everything, sharpen one’s eyes and ears, and take notes about anything …. The experience of strangeness makes all your senses much more sensitive than normal, and your attachment to comparison grows deeper. This is also why fieldwork is so useful when you return home. You will have developed habits of observation and comparison that encourage or force you to start noticing that your own culture is just as strange ….”
Unfortunately the author does not say how his intended Japanese public responded to Life Beyond Boundaries. A lot probably depends on how well the moments of humor and reverie translated. But in English they read wonderfully, and the book is a gem.
Prestige has its privileges. When a well-established award is announced -- as the 100th set of Pulitzer Prize winners was on Tuesday -- it tends to consume the available limelight. Anything less monumental tends to disappear into its shadow.
But a couple of developments in the humanities this week strike me as being as newsworthy as the Pulitzers. If anything, they are possibly more consequential in the long run.
For one, we have the Whiting Foundation’s new Public Engagement Fellowship, which named its first recipients on Tuesday. The fellowship ought not to be confused with the Whiting Award, which since 1985 has been given annually to 10 authors “based on early accomplishment and the promise of great work to come.” The winners receive $50,000 each, along with, presumably, the professed esteem and subdued malice of their peers.
By contrast, the Public Engagement Fellowships go to professors who have shown “a demonstrated commitment to using their scholarly expertise to reach wider audiences,” in order to fund ambitious projects designed to have direct and significant impact on a specific public outside the academy.” There are eight scholars in the fellowship’s inaugural cohort, including, for instance, Zoë Kontes, an associate professor of classics at Kenyon College, who will spend a semester creating a podcast to explore the black market in looted artifacts.
As with the literary prize, the fellowship comes with $50,000, with $10,000 earmarked for the project’s expenses and the rest covering the recipient’s stipend. Neither the number of fellows nor the apportionment of finances is set in stone, as I learned from Daniel Reid, the foundation’s executive director, when we met last week.
He explained that after more than 40 years of funding dissertations in the humanities at elite universities, the Whiting Foundation had decided it was time to direct its attention to a relatively underserved aspect of humanities scholarship: the cultivation of new ways of making connections with the world beyond the campus. Last year, the foundation contacted administrators at 40 universities, encouraging them to nominate faculty with projects that might be appropriate for funding.
“This has been a learning process on both sides,” Reid said, “for [the foundation] in running things and for the institutions in getting a sense of what we’re looking for.” He explained that the proposals were then evaluated by a group of seven people who had considerable experience with the communication of specialized knowledge to a wide public. The names are not public, though Reid indicates that a number of them are prominent figures in scholarship, publishing and museum or gallery curation. (The need for secrecy is understandable: publicizing the names would leave the Whiting judges as vulnerable as delegates to this summer’s political conventions are starting to feel.)
For the second group of Public Engagement Fellows, the Whiting Foundation will double the number of colleges and universities it contacts in search of nominations, with the long-term goal of making the process open to all higher education institutions. In the future, the number of recipients may range from six to 10. I gave the example of Kontes’s podcast on the looting of antiquities as an example (not quite at random: consider me on the waiting list to subscribe) but hope the other projects stimulate interest, discussion and perhaps some healthy competition.
The other development from earlier in the week is Duke University Press’s announcement that it will be publishing an edition of the works of Stuart Hall, who can -- without exaggeration, if not without argument -- be called the founding father of cultural studies as an academic discipline, at least in Great Britain. The Wikipedia entry for Hall is surprisingly thorough, so anyone for whom the name does not signify might want get up to speed there.
Hall is the case of a figure in the humanities whose impact is both widely recognized yet difficult to assess for an American -- for the simple reason that, even at the peak of his influence, his work was remarkably difficult to find. A number of his major writings seem to have been published as mimeographed papers. He published books, but not that many found their way into American bookstores. So the prospect of having his scattered and fugitive writings in an edition from a major university press is appealing.
I heard that Ken Wissoker, the press's editorial director, might have some background information on why we are getting Hall’s work in this form only now, two years after his death. He confirmed my impression in an email note and gave a little background that seems worth putting into the record: “David Morley had edited two or three volumes of Stuart’s essays for Macmillan U.K. back in the late ’80s, but my understanding is that Stuart decided against having them come out (or delayed it into not happening). The original cultural studies essays were in a lot of different places …. Xeroxes and then PDFs circulated, but it would have been very difficult to track down all the originals …. Stuart saw the work as conjunctural and didn’t want it becoming scripture. Ironically, this was only a problem in English. There are translations to Mandarin and German (and I believe Spanish and/or Portuguese).”
The first of the two titles in the Duke edition will be out this fall, and the second will be published next spring. One is a set of lectures on the intellectual foundations of cultural studies, the other the first volume of Hall’s autobiography. “The memoir will have a second volume,” Wissoker says, “that will be more of an intellectual and political summation ‘what I think now’ book.” Farther down the line there will be a volume of selected essays, and Laura Sell, Duke's publicity and advertising manager, says that a number of thematically organized collections on “politics, race, photography, black aesthetics, Marxism and post-Marxism, [and] the Caribbean” will come in due course.
When Winston Smith discovers the blind spot in his apartment -- the niche just out of range of the telescreen, Big Brother’s combination video feed and surveillance system -- it is, George Orwell tells us, “partly the unusual geography of the room” that allows him to take the risk of writing in a diary.
Later Smith finds another room with no telescreen at all, where he and Julia create another zone of privacy: the shared kind, intimacy. It can’t last, of course, and it doesn’t, with brutal consequences for both of them. (Thoughtcrime does not pay.)
The dystopia of Orwell’s 1984 is very much the product of its era, which spanned roughly the period between Hitler’s ascension to power in 1933 and Stalin’s death 20 years later. And while the novel’s depiction of a world without privacy can still raise a reader’s hackles, its technology now looks both retrofuturist and surprisingly inefficient. The telescreens are menacing, but there’s always a chance that Big Brother’s watchers will overlook something. And look at the tools that Winston uses to carve out his own domain of personal memory and antitotalitarian sentiment: a pen and paper. The authorities manage to read his thoughts eventually, but it takes most of the novel to get to that point. Today, Winston would be destined to Room 101 before he powered down his notebook.
Last week, Inoted that Meg Leta Jones’s book Ctrl+Z: The Right to Be Forgotten (NYU Press) arrives at a time when ever fewer activities or communicative exchanges occur without the accompaniment of some form of information technology intervening. Digital traces generated along the way are gathered, analyzed, sold. And the right to privacy becomes a little more purely notional each time one’s eyes slide down the text of a user agreement on the way to clicking “accept.”
A kind of fatalism is involved, one resting on the tacit but powerful tendency to assume that technology itself defines what information will gathered, and how, and the use to be made of it. Implied is a trade-off between privacy and various benefits -- with both the cost and the reward determined by what our devices do and require. Privacy is, in this view, a function of engineering necessities, not of political or moral decisions.
The initial, blunt challenge to technological determinism comes in Ctrl+Z’s opening chapters, where Jones, an assistant professor of communications, culture and technology at Georgetown University, contrasts how the European Union and the United States frame their policies concerning the availability of personal information online. Here personal information would include employment history, financial data and arrest records, as well as, say, material communicated via social media.
In the United States, she writes, the default attitude “permits the collection and transfer of personal information and prevents abuse through self-regulation and market forces,” while E.U. states “operate under comprehensive regimes that protect information across both the public and private sectors and are enforced by specialized data-protection agencies.”
The contrast becomes striking when “data protection” might be better described as protecting the reputation or well-being of the individual to which the data pertains. Take the case of someone who, as a young adult, is arrested for vandalism and destruction of property and serves a jail sentence, all of which was written up in a newspaper in 1990 as well as being documented in official records. Once released, he swears off his old ways and spends the next 25 years in steady employment and overall irreproachable conduct. He awakes to find that the newspaper has digitized its archives and made them searchable via Google.
If our reformed graffiti artist lives in America, he can do little if anything about it, apart from asking the paper to take down its accurate but deeply embarrassing article. There is also a chance his conviction will be publicized on any of various websites dedicated to posting mug shots.
In a number of E.U. countries, by contrast, he could appeal to laws that forbid public reference to someone’s criminal record if it is no longer news or if the ex-con has undergone significant rehabilitation. He might also file a request with Google to remove links to sites mentioning the old transgression. In 2014, the Court of Justice of the European Union ruled that the search engine had to establish a take-down system for people who wanted personal information removed from its search results.
There are variations from country to country, but Jones finds that the E.U. “data subject” (in effect, the citizen’s digital doppelgänger) can claim a “general right to personality” -- a certain degree of dignified immunity from unwelcome attention. The American data subject, by contrast, is presumed to take the Wild West ethos of the Internet pretty much as a given, with any effort to delete information or limit its circulation being labeled, almost inevitably, as Orwellian. (Even so, a number of piecemeal efforts have been made in the United States to protect children and victims of harassment and bullying, including laws against revenge porn.)
But as Jones goes on to show, any preference for one of these frameworks over the other will soon enough be faced with the much harder matter of dealing with new and unanticipated shades of gray left out of the public/private distinction. And the other dichotomy -- between having every bit of personal data (flattering, humiliating or neither) either preserved forever in a digital archive or destined for the memory hole -- is also looking out of date. Jones’s book doesn’t predict what comes next, but it’s a great stimulant for anyone bracing themselves to think about it.
New book argues that students involved in campus protests over controversial speakers or ideas should instead support a marketplace of ideas in which all notions are heard and the best rise to the top.