The humanities need no case: a response to Justin Stover and many others.

Editor’s note: This letter was written by a reader of the site; I have provided the links to posts he addresses in his remarks and include his references.

Rimini, Antica Cafeteria, Piazza Tre Martiri / January 2018

Dear Editor,

Your excerpt and publication of Justin Stover’s piece, “There is No Case for the Humanities,” brought to mind the ironies in the attempts to marginalize the study of literature, language, history, philosophy, or religion – in short, those areas we now call the humanities. All these attempts, Stover’s included, create puppets of the humanities and give them voice from their ventriloquism: squeaky, insecure sounds, which offer caricatures and puffed-out straw men. Stover would have us imagine the humanities confined to the university library and lecture hall, with their professors holding forth on the narrowest of subjects. Small wonder, then, that scientists push them aside and receive greater recognition.

These ventriloquists of the humanities may be staging their spectacle with the aim of delighting or antagonizing their readers, but they miss the central point. The staging and spectacle employ the very means they would caricature, namely the humanities. Rhetoric, logic, and language are at the heart of the humanities, and their opponents – as well as many of their would-be advocates – secretly make use of the humanities in their speeches about its worth.

Language: if one sits in a café in a busy square and listens to the conversations, not to eavesdrop, but rather to take in what language reveals, then one comes closer to the heart of the humanities. It is the language of gossip, anger, excitement, exhaustion, distraction; it is the language of lies and love. Federico Fellini in his Amarcord, his film of remembrance, traveled back to this seaside city to record this language. Recording this language, he made a work of art. But this art is not above us, foreign to us. It is not a learned abstraction. On the contrary, its language illuminates our lives. The groundlings in the Globe Theater could applaud Shakespeare’s Tempest, and follow Ariel as much as Caliban.

Stover speaks for many others who would make the humanities into fragile, erudite, and airy subjects. They are much more basic and durable. In fact, they preside over the means of their making. He argues that the humanities produce overspecialized and effete scholarship. We could try to defend this humanities hologram. But this would be only more theater of the absurd, when the drama itself lies in the language of argument. Stover overlooks the real stakes of his “case” against the humanities: the loss of language, or more specifically the loss of care for and love of language.

If we look to poets and thinkers across the centuries, we discover, repeatedly, that they have criticized scholars for their narrow pursuits, and also for their quest for fame and money. So Socrates mocked the sophists, and Lucian the philosophers. Seneca ridiculed their excesses, a theme picked up by Erasmus’s Folly, and then by Rabelais and Montaigne, who stated (or understated) that “the greatest scholars are not the wisest men.” This resonated with the words of Seneca, who called them “a spiritless lot: for people are forever acting as interpreters and never as creators, always lurking in someone else’s shadow” (letters 33 and 87).

But – in case you think I am now being pedantic myself – the point is to learn from the humanities, the range and depth of its literature. By this means we might more fully understand ourselves by understanding others. Scholarship, at its best, serves as the café waiter or maître d’ to these literary offerings.

The humanities are so fundamental that critics (and advocates) easily overlook them, but this oversight is part of our modern malady and one-sidedness. Here Italians are more alive to the dangers of this one-sidedness, which is why Rimini will always celebrate Fellini, and Certaldo its Boccaccio, and why Roberto Benigni, the actor and comedian, can read Dante before thousands of people on the steps of Santa Croce in Florence. The leading television program right now is a tour of Italy’s cultural heritage by Alberto Angela.

Russia, too, has long explored this modern urge to isolate and limit the humanities through science and scholarship. Gogol, in his brilliant Dead Souls, has his protagonist Tchitchikov visit two estates: one is run according to the latest scientific methods; on the other, the learned landowner yearns to educate the peasants in German arts and manners. The first farm is a model of utility and proficiency and the second is in disarray. Gogol shows us the ‘triumph’ of the sciences at a cost, the cost of character and personality, as well as the vanity of erudition. Both extremes exist to the detriment of both.

This is comical, but relevant, as relevant as the question raised in Dostoevsky’s Devils: what is more important, Pushkin or a pair of boots? Stover would have the humanities push literature into scholarly insignificance. But the humanities, at heart, tend Pushkin’s fire, so that his words could warm the spirits of Dostoevsky, Tchaikovsky, and Akhmatova, and through them untold numbers of readers for generations to come. As Joseph Brodsky observed, Dostoevsky found inspiration and insight in the very syntax of the Russian language, in its use of dependent clauses, which led to the spiraling psychological digressions that wind through his work.

Does all this that the humanities provide then need a “case”? Can we ever stand as advocates or lawyers for the humanities? Or do they not, rather, wait upon us to become more alive to their resources? They require not a case, but care. They remain in patient uselessness; they guard the gifts of language, which we all need though too little respect in our preoccupations with science and technology.

Rabindranath Tagore a century ago contemplated the advance of the sciences in words that were pungent and prescient. Tagore held science in esteem and met with Einstein in 1930 to discuss the nature of truth. Yet as an educator, poet, and philosopher, he warned against the single-minded mania for science as the path to fulfillment. He spoke to Japanese students in 1916 just as Japan was pursuing Western technological ‘advancement.’ The life of science, he told them, was a “superficial life”:

Science, when it oversteps its limits and occupies the whole region of life, has its fascination. It looks so powerful because of its superficiality – as does a hippopotamus which is very little else but physical. Science speaks of the struggle for existence, but forgets that man’s existence is not merely of the surface. Man truly exists in the ideal of perfection, whose height and depth are not yet measured. (“The Spirit of Japan,” July 2, 1916)

The height and depth of humanity, then: these are the coordinates of the humanities. We may ignore them as we ignore our inner lives, our need for myth and stories, even our love for flowers: all “useless” things that, somehow, we secretly recognize as essential to who we are, to our self-knowledge and our self-realization. Erwin Chargaff, the great biochemist who explored our DNA, echoed Tagore’s warning, with greater pessimism: “Our time” – he wrote some forty years ago – “when even Old Testament prophets must disguise themselves in laboratory gowns, will not understand when I say that the majority of those things that concern or should concern humanity plays out in realms in which the natural sciences have no bearing at all.”

It is pleasant to be idle in a city like Rimini and sit outside in warm January weather and, like the statue of Julius Caesar in the Piazza, observe the passeggiata of life. Life in the round is the realm of the humanities. This realm is more than the courtoisie of an educated few, as Stover imagines the culture of the humanities. If we listen to the poets and singers that voice our mythologies, our lives follow a richer cadence. Schools and universities may have retreated from these voices, but they have never left us, nor do I think they ever will, if the gods are kind. It falls to us to watch our language more intently, with a sense of wonder before what may appear on the horizon, what new vessel may bring the wandering poets home after what seems so long an exile.

Cordially,

Roberto Fubini