Departures are stressful affairs. In 1904, James Joyce, an Irish Modernist writer, and Nora Barnacle, his girlfriend, began their lifelong pilgrimage through Europe. They had just met, a few months before — she a hotel maid from Galway, he a Jesuit-educated young man with poor eyesight and an ambition to become a famous writer. Joyce didn’t deceive Nora when he predicted the discomfort of their upcoming elopement and their life in exile. He confessed that he could not “enter the social order except as a vagabond.” Propelled by the desire to encounter the new, they both left the familiar constrains of home behind.
And in the midst of the debate about the so-called crisis of the humanities, I want my entire academic field to draw inspiration from authors like Joyce. Without dismissing the very real financial crisis in humanities departments, I want to address another kind of crisis — not entirely unrelated to funding — the widely professed crisis of identity.
Can Joyce’s life and writing give us some direction to re-envision the humanities as a field? A sense of personal crisis and disillusionment compelled him and many other expat Modernists away from home. Joyce rejected formalized religion and the insular culture of turn-of-the-century Dublin. Yet he remained saturated with both religion and Dublin and explored them in his writing until he died.
Voluntary exile furnished him with inspiration and necessary distance from the familiar, a detachment that many creative writers consider invaluable in capturing the complexities of fictional settings. But Joyce wrote about his homeland with a great deal of warmth, not just criticism. In his fiction, he goes back to Dublin streets again and again, and he goes back to the West of Ireland, where his beloved Nora came from. The last paragraph of “The Dead” is the most touching description of a native land by a self-exiled writer.
James Joyce — a voluntary exile, a wanderer, a seeker — always came home. This master of experimental writing and irreverent violator of tradition returns home whenever he alludes to Odysseus’s wandering and whenever he lets us encounter his Irish equivalent of Odysseus, Leopold Bloom — an Irishman, a Jew, and a cuckold, an alienated character, an “ancient mariner.” As we plow through Ulysses, we read about Stephen Dedalus’s snot, Leopold Bloom’s erections and bowel movements, and Molly Bloom’s menstruation, and we’re not quite sure where we’re heading. Yet, in all this apparent directionlessness, we learn a great deal about suffering, betrayal, desire, and compassion. We know the characters intimately, and we want to reach out and touch them, cry with them, walk with them. We sympathize with Bloom, who responds to violence by proposing that the answer to “force, hatred, history, all that” is “Love.”
Exile and nomadism, those unsettling symptoms of Modernist physical and spiritual displacement, can furnish us with love — love for discovery, love for learning, love for the other. It is through leaving the comfort of home and encountering alien people and ideas that the humanities classroom thrives. We expect our students to enter the world of the unknown with courage, but we are often hesitant to do it ourselves. We should have the courage to face the new — collectively as a discipline.
Let’s look at the “crisis of the humanities” as an opportunity to re-envision the field, to send it off on a great adventure away from home. Let’s not treat the humanities as a field with a calcified identity, entrenched in the past. Lest you misunderstand me: This is not a call to forget about the past, to abandon Confucius and Aristotle, Beowulf and Dante, Voltaire and Tolstoy.
I want the humanities to remember home, but to be comfortable with change, to embrace new opportunities, to feel the excitement of letting their identity be molded by movement, not to be threatened by changing or porous boundaries. If we do not initiate new adventures and if we do not embrace an itinerant mode of exploration as potentially educational and formative, we will be forced to change anyway.
And the difference between choosing exile and being forced into a refugee status is profound. Joyce, for example, was never barred from returning to Dublin. He maintained his ties with Ireland and, if he chose to, he could always return home — through his experimental fiction and political essays or by visiting Ireland himself. Refugees facing real violence have no luxury of returning home.
Underfunded and disrespected humanities are the refugees of academe. In the last decade alone, whole departments have fallen victim to the corporate takeover of learning. So without dismissing the value of staying home, I want to suggest that we explore new ways of scholarship and that we travel to other disciplines — yes, including computer science and STEM — to enrich our thinking about our disciplines. Being homesick without being homeless, conversing with the past while imagining new beginnings — all this is potentially generative and exciting.
The writers we study in literature classrooms and the teachers who assign their texts put “home” in conversation with the tradition in order to other it. These writers often speak with each other across the boundaries of time and space. They leave home to drop in on distant relatives or total strangers. Colm Tóibín’s Testament of Mary responds to the New Testament and allows Mary to voice her dismay over the idol-worship surrounding her son and, eventually, her anguish over his death. Carol Ann Duffy revisits Greek and Roman mythologies to give voice to the women rendered mute by the original storytellers.
This is the essence of the humanities: embracing the nomadic state of not knowing and not belonging and, at the same time, living in the text and conversing with it freely; being rooted in tradition and challenging it; respecting the canon and revising it as we begin to understand who has been silenced; retaining our reverence for the printed book and letting ourselves feel excited about new modes of writing, publishing, and discussing literature.
Our disciplines are grounded in printed text or painted canvas, but they should also explore the new technologies that democratize people’s access to knowledge and allow the difficult conversation with tradition to happen instead of hiding behind a paywall. We should use these technologies with excitement and criticize them where they fail to deliver.
In the nomadic future of the humanities, scholars of sub-Saharan literature collaborate freely with visual artists and computer science experts on projects that would attract students and the general public. In the nomadic future of the humanities, business owners, nurses, and local artists join college students in poetry slams and book clubs. Our brilliant philosophers of gender, race, and class leave the campus regularly to engage middle-schoolers and high-schoolers in the life of the mind, leading discussions about the issues that affect them. In the nomadic future of the humanities, we prove that literature is not only for the elite few, that the beauty of the written and spoken word can move everyone, and everyone can try to articulate why.
To accomplish all this, the humanities will have to open up and venture out without the fear that we’re undermining some primeval principle of what it is we should be doing as scholars and teachers. Pretentious, intentionally obscure, and insular humanities will soon face decline. I do not dismiss the beauty and importance of navigating the world of ideas without any stated utilitarian purpose. But the humanities should be in flux, inviting others to join in their nomadism, open to other disciplines, learning from them and teaching them, too.
Like James Joyce and other Modernists who left home in both literal and metaphorical ways when they abandoned the comfort of established modalities of expression, the humanities — as well as their teachers and students — should be encouraged to redefine themselves as they cross borders and encounter alien worlds. If the humanities could repeat Stephen Dedalus’s call “Away! Away!,” with equal enthusiasm but with less arrogance, perhaps we wouldn’t be talking about their “crisis.”
If we acknowledge the importance of the formative origins of the field and continue exploring them unapologetically and with passion but in a way that would be inclusive of those unfamiliar with the prohibitive jargon of most academic papers, we could capture the interest in ancient philosophy, Medieval morality plays, or postmodern theater among people who are not affiliated with academe but who enjoy the life of the mind. We could avoid the charge of being locked up in the Ivory Tower, waiting for our slow death as the masses outside rage against us. If we admit that revamping and energizing the field will take resources, creativity, and courage, and if we reward the courage to leave “home” in search of discovery, the humanities classrooms will again be filled with students.
We’re already doing a lot of great work on campuses across the nations: tweeting about philosophy, transforming theories of public engagement into practice in local communities, or sending students to professional conferences, writers’ workshops, and exhibitions. But it would take a more systemic shift to make all this possible on a larger scale.
First, a lot of these creative ways of approaching the humanities are time-consuming and costly, and grants for the humanities scholars and teachers, always unimpressive, are becoming even more rare as the National Endowment for the Humanities and Fulbright funds are being drastically cut. Second, we should start rewarding public engagement with the humanities in tangible ways. A series of compelling and clear blogs about an obscure 17th-century poet should count toward tenure and promotion, together with required well-researched papers published in specialized, peer-reviewed journals. Both forms of engagement with our subjects are important and valid, and they should be complementary as well as rewarded.
Publishing in traditional academic journals tests new ideas on the forum of narrowly specialized scholars and adds new knowledge to the field. Explaining our research to the general public in clear, accessible prose could make it possible for us to continue testing new ideas in a narrowly specialized forum. If popularizing the humanities, the hard work of bringing them out in the open, is derided as a job of a traveling salesman, the humanities will lose public support, and along with it, the resources necessary to thrive.
So let us together see the humanities take a stroll into uncharted territories but always remember home, like Leopold Bloom who — after walking through Dublin for many hours — returns in a chapter called “Ithaca” to his unfaithful wife’s bed and kisses “the plump mellow yellow smellow melons of her rump.” Voluntary exile from Ithaca, from the Blooms’ jingling bed, from Ireland, from Aristotle and Shakespeare, from a printed book and a lecture hall, will help us look at home upon our return in a new way, influenced by encountering the alien.
The humanities that boldly leave home — and yet always remember home—the humanities that are not afraid to take a risky detour, the humanities that are not too aloof to leave the campus and engage pressing issues with clarity and empathy — this is a field that will survive any crisis of confidence.
Agata Szczeszak-Brewer is associate professor and chair of English at Wabash College
A year out from his own run through the annual meeting gauntlet, Christopher Garland offers tips on being prepared, impressing the search committee -- and avoiding that last-minute meltdown in the elevator.
In today's Academic Minute, Charlton McIlwain, associate professor of media, culture and communication at New York University, explores news coverage specifically about Michael Brown and the ways it did and did not focus on issues of race and ethnicity. Learn more about the Academic Minute here.
Joy Laskar, a a former tenured professor of electrical engineering at Georgia Institute of Technology, has been indicted on two counts of racketeering, based on allegations that he poured some $1 million of university funds into his own tech company, Fox6 WBRC reported. In an interview with the station, Laskar denied the charges, saying that he used university funds to make legitimate purchases of computer chips that benefited his students and research work. Laskar’s university office was raided by investigators in 2010, and he was later suspended and fired. In 2011, the university settled with him for more than $181,000, after he sued, saying he'd been wrongfully suspended without pay. A criminal investigation continued, however, and the indictments were handed down as the statute of limitations for the case neared. Craig Frankel, one of Laskar’s attorneys, did not immediately respond to a request for comment. A university spokesman confirmed that Laskar’s employment there ended officially in August 2011, but he declined further comment on the pending litigation.
“The Top 10 Retractions of 2014” appeared on the website of the life-sciences magazine The Scientist a couple of weeks back, garnering a little attention (mostly of the social-media, “Hey, look at this!” variety) but without making much of an impact. Comments were few and far between.
That seems unfortunate, given the stakes. Physicians, it has been said, bury their mistakes -- a grim joke that very nearly applies to some of the researchers whose work made the Hall of Shame. But most of the inductees are charged with committing malfeasance rather than error. (A number of them were covered here at Inside Higher Ed over the past year.)
The most egregious case? That would have to be the paper that the journal Retrovirology retracted, by a researcher who "spiked rabbit blood samples with human blood to make it look as though his HIV vaccine was working.” The runner-up is probably the situation that forced the Journal of Vibration and Control to retract 60 articles, which had been accepted for publication after receiving fraudulent “peer review” by scientists who manipulated the online submission system using up to 130 fake email accounts.
The good news is that the paper reporting on HIV vaccine work that had been tampered with seems not to have made much of an impression: it hadn’t been cited by other researchers. As for the phony peer-review gang, its leader was the identical twin brother of Taiwan’s minister of education, whose name appeared as a coauthor of some of the papers. Not long after the scandal broke, the minister resigned, while insisting that he had no idea of what his evil twin had been up to. (And you thought your family gatherings were awkward,)
The annual list (first compiled in 2013) is the work of the good people at Retraction Watch, who monitor and investigate the embarrassed announcements that publishers would rather not have to issue. Most of the stories they cover are from the sciences (chiefly natural, some social) although there is the occasional case from the humanities, where the main ground for retraction seems to be plagiarism. Or rather, problems of involving "mistaken punctuation" and "misreferencing," since euphemism prevails. (One author charged with plagiarism admitted to "misconduct in text," which is my new favorite expression.)
Besides fraudulent labwork and efforts to game the peer-review system, RW covers breaches of ethical norms in research -- the notorious "Facebook mood experiment" made the list for 2014 -- while also keeping an eye on predators lurking in the shadows around scholarly publishing. While unscrupulous academic publishers deserve all the bad press they get, they are often so brazen that it's hard to think of them as a menace. Consider the most widely noticed example in recent months: the story of a couple of computer scientists who wrote a "paper" consisting of an obscene seven-word sentence, repeated a few hundred times and incorporated into graphs and flowcharts. They submitted it to one of the sketchier journals in their field, where it appeared once the authors paid a fee. After all, the anonymous reviewer considered the paper "excellent.”
Which, in its own way, it was, though the paper is not on the top 10 list. Using the carelessness and greed of worthless journals to embarrass them may be an entertaining way to blow a few hundred bucks, but much less amusing is the thought that there must be academic libraries paying for subscriptions to said journals.
One of the year's top 10 items involved a French computer scientist who, the Retraction Watch says, “catalogued computer-generated papers that made it into more than 30 published conference proceedings between 2008 and 2013. Sixteen appeared in publications by Springer, and more than 100 were published by the Institute of Electrical and Electronic Engineers (IEEE).” The fact that the papers were computer-generated does not mean they were gibberish, since there are programs that can perform a database search and "write" a credible literature review. Still, that seems like streamlining the production of knowledge just a little too far.
The Retraction Watch site is littered with the wreckage of numerous careers, but it serves an important purpose apart from the dubious pleasures of Schadenfreude. In a recent column I wrote about Ben Goldacre's book I Think You'll Find It's a Bit More Complicated Than That (Fourth Estate), which includes a shrewd assessment of the strengths and weaknesses of the peer-review system that seems germane:
"[Peer-review] is often represented as some kind of policing system for truth, but in reality some dreadful nonsense gets published, and mercifully so: shaky material of some small value can be published into the buyer-beware professional literature of academic science; then the academic readers, who are trained to appraise critically a scientific case, can make their own judgments. And it is this second stage of review by your peers -- after publication -- that is so important in science. If there are flaws in your case, responses can be written, as letters to the academic journal, or even whole new papers. If there is merit in your work, then new ideas and research will be triggered. That is the real process of science."