The Refuge of the Academy: Response to Socrates Tenured

Robert Frodeman and Adam Briggle’s Socrates Tenured (2016) is entertaining, provocative, and from my perched position in the Rockies, on the right tracks in lamenting the self-selected oblivion which philosophers are consciously choosing for themselves. They follow in the footsteps of fellow philosopher Steve Fuller who has become the August Comte Chair in Social Epistemology (rather than Philosophy) at Warwick. Their lamentation is addressed primarily to the dual poison pills philosophers have swallowed, Neoliberalism and Analytic Philosophy. The inwardness of these professional philosophers, who have dominated the Anglo-American academic axis for decades, is contrasted with the free-wheeling of Socrates (as depicted by his student Plato), the roaming gadfly who managed to annoy enough of his fellow Athenians to be put on trial and to be found guilty (and sentenced to death). Whether understood as a sophist or cynic, Fuller reminds us, “Socrates” has been sanitized in the academy and the richness of his intellectual breadth has been lost on generations of professional philosophers who are more concerned with the details of his logical argumentation than with his wide-ranging views on humanity, the human condition, and the good life. A more contemporary exemplar, according to Fuller, is Bertrand Russell who was a man-about-town and an academic, engaged in philosophical disputations about logic and mathematics as well as the affairs of the state. In short, their claim is that the likes of Socrates and Russell would be hard pressed to be hired in prestigious philosophy departments, and even if they managed to slip through hiring committees, they would not be tenured.

Frodeman and Briggle suggest that “Socrates could never get a position today in a philosophy (or any other) department” (1). This statement is shocking insofar as Socrates and Plato are by far the most revered philosophers by any school of thought in the history of philosophy. In the 20th century, Alfred North Whitehead famously said that “the safest general characterization of the European philosophical tradition is that it consists of a series of footnotes to Plato,” and even when Karl Popper critically distinguishes between Socrates (the democrat) and Plato (the autocrat), he acknowledges the undisputed importance of the two for the history of ideas in general and for philosophy in particular. Against this backdrop of overwhelming admiration for the Socratic spirit (if not the person himself), Frodeman and Briggle’s provocation resonates: how could it be that Socrates would neither get a university job nor get tenure? If the greatest of them all could not become a professional philosopher in today’s academy, “something must be rotten in the state of Denmark,” as Shakespeare’s Hamlet observes. The next question, of course, is whether it is Socrates who lacks the credentials or the departments of philosophy who have lost their way and set up criteria that stray from Frodeman and Briggle’s view of what philosophy should be all about. In case one wonders what they have in mind, they explain that there are three models in philosophy: “disciplinary philosophers, who mainly communicate with one another, field philosophers, who shuttle between academia and the larger world, and philosopher bureaucrats, who have ‘gone native’” (3). These three kinds of philosophers constitute the “ecosystem” of contemporary philosophers. While they deride the “disciplinary philosophers” and say little about “philosopher bureaucrats,” they promote the third group of “field philosophers.” This last group is distinguished because its members “shuttle between academia and the larger world.”

One may ask, how are these “field” philosophers any different from applied or practical philosophers and closer to Socrates? Or, more simply, what is wrong with the efforts of business and medical ethicists in the past few decades? What is wrong as well with those concerned with engineering and environmental ethics? Frodeman and Briggle argue that “rather than becoming a philosophical practice out and about within society, applied philosophy focused on writing philosophy articles for other philosophers” (4). The failure of these philosophers to communicate with an audience larger than their own fellow experts is at the heart of their lament. And they offer “in contrast,” that “field philosophy is attuned to the rhythms of contemporary society: practically engaged, stakeholder-centred, and timely” (4). So, is it that all other practical and applied philosophers are simply not “timely” enough, that they are not “engaged” enough, or that they neglect “stakeholders”? In other words, is the sin committed by these philosophers practical or philosophical? If practical, we can teach them how to be more relevant and find spots on television networks, perhaps even offer some journalism courses among their training so that they will sound less “philosophical.” But if the issue is philosophical, is it their lack of Socratic free-flow of topics and ideas? Or, is it their overly committed pursuit of a philosophically laden worldview? We are not talking here of those philosophers who study esoteric topics, like Bruno’s multiple worlds or Leibnitz’s monads, but practical and applied philosophers whose topics are of public concern. Perhaps their failure is one of publication outlets, where they are more likely to receive a hearing among other practitioners as opposed to the pages of the (few and quickly disappearing) local or national newspapers.

The “four themes” that undergird Frodeman and Briggle’s book are “a description and diagnosis of the irrelevance of philosophy, an explanation of the generally failed attempts to be socially relevant, our own model for achieving societal relevance, and an outline of new areas for philosophic research” (5). What makes this agenda important for our consideration is that they want to remind us not only about the potential relevance of philosophy as a discipline, but that “the point of philosophy now is to be smart rather than good” (10). This concern is reminiscent of Jean-Jacques Rousseau’s Discourse on the Arts and Sciences (1750) which was awarded the prize by the Academy of Dijon and which responded to the question: “Has the restoration of the sciences and the arts contributed to refining moral practices?” Rousseau’s answer is a resolute “no!” In his recounting, we are prone to give prizes (irony intended) to those writing essays about virtue rather than those performing virtuous acts. In following this line of argument, we observe that some of the best and brightest graduates from Ivy-League academies indeed join predatory Wall Street firms whose fines (for legal violations) since the Great Recession have exceeded $250 billion. The legal settlements that accompany the fines, as one may infer from the documents available to the public, stipulate that the firms do not have to admit (legal) guilt. Who can expect, then, that they would admit any moral culpability? Rousseau was right and so are Frodeman and Briggle: the cultivation of philosophy has not “contributed to refining moral practices.” The more professional philosophers have been “sanitized” and “purified” in their academic departments, the less they care about their moral stature and the ideals they should wrestle with and promote outside their comfort zones.

There are various arguments about the debilitating impact of the institutional trappings of the academy in the book. Instead of following them, as Frodeman and Briggle eloquently do, I wish to offer two comments that may be helpful in moving this important conversation forward. The first is about the academy and the second is about public intellectuals. At the turn of this century, I suggested that the academy should be a refuge place for intellectuals (Sassower 2000). Given the neoliberal pressures of the economy and the political climate that accompanies these pressures, the academy could be seen, just like monasteries of yesteryear, as a refuge. Instead of running universities like businesses, as Elizabeth Popp Berman (2012) brilliantly demonstrates in recounting the transformation of the university system over the past few decades, and instead of running scientific research for profit, as Philip Mirowski (2011) has decisively argued about scientific research in the academy, we should let intellectuals pursue their interests without having to think about the “bottom line.” The luxury of pursuing one’s heart’s desire, remaining curious and imaginative, and following a seemingly esoteric research program for the love of it should be publicly supported and maintained within the academy. Socrates, too, wanted to be a warden of Athens, suggesting that a fitting reward for his philosophical work would be free meals in the Prytaneum, the way Olympian winners receive theirs. In his mind, this “is fitting for a poor man, a benefactor, who needs to have leisure to exhort you” (Apology 36d). Socrates sounds here much more like a tenured professor who needs “leisure to exhort” students, and when doing so sees philosophical work as “a benefactor” and himself as a “poor man.” In this very narrow sense, Socrates’ expectation parallels the expectation (and justification) of all professors, tenured or not, in philosophy departments or elsewhere in the academy.

The academy should remain a refuge site where we can think through a problem, study its history, appreciate the nuances that surround it, and only after some reflection with the aid of collegial feedback (sometimes accomplished through peer-review processes, however flawed) might provisional solutions be offered. To call the academy a refuge might upset some because “real” refugees are expelled from their homes involuntarily while academics choose their vocation and therefore do not deserve our sympathy and protection (from the pressures of the “real world”). Yet we can also observe those members in the academy that could not function elsewhere, could not withstand the neoliberal pressures of profit-maximizing or uphold social conventions that are superficial at best and at worst hide deep-seated prejudices and hatred. For these individuals, the academy can be a refuge, a protective shield that allows them to think freely, voice unpopular ideas, and retain their intellectual integrity. In short, these are the ones who in fact live by a moral compass and deflect the temptations to be “oh so relevant” that they sway and oscillate in whatever direction the winds blow. Perhaps their adamant irrelevancy is a virtue, too. Some defenders of academic freedom of thought have even stooped low enough to argue that esoteric research, say, in mathematics, can lead to great unexpected technological innovations in later years; others have said the same about the inspiration military leaders may gain from the poetry of the ancients. If Socrates remains the model, I see him content in the philosophy department. He would be more than happy to accept a regular paycheck large enough to support his family and give him the freedom to ask questions and be both a gadfly and a midwife of ideas. Would he be relevant enough for Frodeman and Briggle? Can they not think of him being clever enough in the job interview to get a position in their department? Can they not imagine their own department happy enough to grant him tenure because he was popular with his students (the youth he supposedly corrupted)? Can we not imagine even high-ranking administrators entertained by the odd philosopher that somehow legitimates their power over the “life of the mind”? Can we not see him, as we do others, attending a conference and losing his hotel-room key or being lost among the identical conference rooms where papers are presented? He would be the one in the back of the room asking an interesting question that would give all participants a pause, would he not? I have seen the likes of him in my academic life, and I have also seen many colleagues protect them along their careers. Yes, I imagine Socrates happy, the way Camus imagines Sisyphus happy.

With all its failings, the academy has historically remained a refuge for intellectuals despite its professionalization. Moreover, if philosophers and other intellectuals just pay a little attention to their institutional surroundings and the rules of the game in which they are engaged, they can quite easily be both compliant enough to deflect the pressures of the institution and courageous enough to be intellectually alive both inside and outside the confines of their departments. It is this postmodern “both–and” that fascinates me in the case of the academy, a maligned institution in the neoliberal frame of reference, but still valued by society. Just think of the fact that at least in the American model of public and private universities and colleges billions of dollars are donated annually. Buildings get named after rich donors, and endowed chairs illustrate financial commitments from alumni and other wealthy individuals. If the wealthy are predominantly neoliberal (because this ideology justifies their profiteering) and therefore find the life of the mind wasteful, and if the rest of society simply does not care about intellectual pursuits, why is it that they somehow support higher education? Can you imagine a post-Thatcher administration in the United Kingdom that would decimate Oxford and Cambridge? Can you imagine a neoliberal Trump administration revising the tax code to revoke the nonprofit status of Harvard and Princeton? My suspicion is that despite our lamentation, the academy is valued by most of the public, even if not for all the right reasons. Prestige and privilege accompany intellectuals in the academy, and because of that, my guess is that Frodeman and Briggle want their “field philosophers” to “shuttle between academia and the larger world.” Otherwise, they would not want them to even get their PhDs there, let alone be associated with those purified and sanitized places.

But there is a deeper concern expressed in Frodeman and Briggle’s book, one that transcends the standard critiques of the academy and its professionalizing rules and procedures. The dual concern is with the role of academics as civil servants (on the German model) and their potential role as public intellectuals, as I have discussed elsewhere (Sassower 2014). What do academics owe to their community? How should they share their expertise with the public? Frodeman and Briggle correctly identify one major barrier to any potential public engagement in the form of incomprehensible language and the narrow focus of research, especially in philosophy. It is true that not all academics are intellectuals and that not all intellectuals are public intellectuals. It is this last category that Frodeman and Briggle identify as field philosophers, those who comfortably travel the distance between their academic positions and the public square (more likely a virtual one in the Digital Age). My own historical survey includes among those who would count as public intellectuals the Greek gadflies (already discussed above) and philosopher-kings (perhaps Frodeman and Briggle’s bureaucrats come close to this category), (biblical or modern-day) prophets (who chastize political leaders and the public), Nietzschean Übermenschen (who challenge social norms and moral principles), clerks (as philosopher-bureaucrats) and those who are politically responsible (and who get engaged in public policy debates), unattached witnesses (who spill the beans, so to speak, like whistle-blowers and hacktivists) as well as Gramscian organic participants (who are connected to the public’s plight), specialized and universal intellectuals (whose expert testimony can sway policy makers), (court or public square) jesters and (Edward) Said-like amateurs (who use their fame in one field to express opinions in another), legislators (bureaucrats, too?) and translators (from one discourse to another, one field of expertise to another), interpreters and spokespersons (who move the discourse from the experts to the people and vice versa), strangers and nomads (who bring news from afar to comment on what they see), and finally a group of potential public intellectuals who operate in the contemporary wide world of the Internet, reckless celebrities, rappers, and bloggers. In these cases, admittedly each requiring examples and support for both their intellectual mettle and their public reach, we expect a level of risk-taking and exposure, of the kind advocated by Fuller (2005, 2009) for the special case of tenured professors.

Overall, then, my sympathies are with Frodeman and Briggle’s exposure of academics who are neither intellectuals nor public intellectuals, cloistered in the comfort or misery of departments and colleges, insulated from the community whose needs they are supposed to serve. We can strengthen the rules of the academic game and give more credit to those engaged in public policy and in public debates, writing for local newspapers and appearing on radio and television shows. We can make our resumes public, as Richard Posner (2001) insists and encourage community outreach. But changing the American anti-intellectualism of the past three centuries will be more difficult than Frodeman and Briggle hope for, as it is an ingrained disease whose medicine, as we see with the new Trump administration, powerful leaders refuse to administer to themselves. Frodeman and Briggle’s provocation is therefore a welcome reminder on what conversation intellectuals should be having nowadays.