As I sit at the garden table, eating scrambled eggs on buttery toast with a side of dressed spinach, hummus and avocado, I notice something.
I notice my scrambled eggs on buttery toast with a side of dressed spinach, hummus and avocado.
I notice the way my teeth sink into the soft, salty, peppery eggs and meet in the squidgy, buttery, sponge of the bread, and how if I suck just a little the melted butter runs around my tongue in the most delightful way.
I notice the avocado slices trying to escape the prongs of the fork, slipping and sliding over one another as if to say ‘…not me! Not yet!’
I notice the stems of the spinach, bending and cracking as I roll them into the creamy, grainy hummus.
Readings, B. 1996. The University in Ruins. Harvard University Press.
Readings describes himself as ‘deeply ambivalent’ about the university, and his book as an attempt to think his way out of ‘an impasse between militant radicalism and cynical despair.’ I know how he feels; I felt that way for a while. For me, there has been a turning point; my anger has gone, and I feel a lot more positive about the future. I’m optimistic that we are beginning to embark on a viable and preferable path of human development and innovation… but more on that another time I guess!
Writing in the mid-1990s, shortly before Dearing and Blair – and Reading’s own untimely death in a plane crash – Readings makes the case that there is no longer any fixed idea of the university, that its social role as an institution is up for grabs. He draws a distinction between this claim and the attempts of others to engage with conflicting ideas of the university, and those who argue that new theoretical advances render the old ideas obsolete.
Readings’ work is focused on the Western idea of the University, and on an American view in particular, explaining that ‘Americanization’ is synonymous with globalization. He doesn’t beat around the bush here and I guess that’s one of the few advantages of being dead, you don’t have to deal with the consequences of posthumous publication. Maybe that’s why this book comes across as so brave and ahead of its time. Readings sees the dissolution of the university’s sense of purpose is an outcome of ‘decline of the national cultural mission’ (p3). The university used to produce, protect and inculcate national culture, and now there is no national culture.
I found myself questioning this while watching a sheep-shearing contest yesterday – I am on a self-led writing retreat on the west coast of Wales), but I don’t think that’s the kind of national culture Readings thought it was the university’s task to protect. By the way, the guy who won was called Shaun. True story.
At this point in reading, I thought about whether there were (and still are) some things about national culture in the Western world that needed changing; white supremacy, nepotism, ‘powerful knowledge’ and so on (on the other hand, much of the English literature canon, while heavy on dead white males, is on the subjects of oppression, exile and diversity). Do we need a national culture? What is its value? What if we do have a culture, it is just more fluid, mutifaceted and multicoloured than it used to be? Sure, today’s universities are bureaucratic transnational corporations as Reading points out, but they are also questioning, broadening and synthesising culture. At least, ours does; I see it happen on a daily basis.
With bureaucracy comes administration and the pursuit of what Readings calls the ‘empty concept’ of excellence.
Barzun (1968, p19) speaks of administrators thus:
‘if caught young, such men can become top civil-servants and be accepted as professionals without being scholars; they can enjoy a prestige of their own and share fully in the amenities that are widely believed to adorn campus life; and they can do more than any other agency, human or electronic, to render efficient the workings of the great machine.’
Practically, we need administrators, and – having been a programme administrator earlier on in my HE career, I rather think the drive to excellence may be the most obvious source of meaning in an administrative role. In my university admin job I was dealing with students face-to-face and over the phone at least some of the time, but many university administrators do not. They deal with numbers, interfaces, forms and faceless applications. What rewards exist for such an administrator that enable them to derive pleasure from the work? Dealing with applications efficiently, monitoring satisfaction, using data to predict critical incidents, ensuring applicants have accurate information about the course and that students receive and attend to updates; this is what it means for an administrator to do their job well. Benchmarks and targets provide direction; something to aim for.
In this sense, ‘excellence’ may be deeply, personally meaningful, and I am concerned that in decrying it as an empty concept – as I have myself done – academics reveal a worrying lack of empathy and understanding (perhaps the complaint is even emptier than the concept). There are, of course, cases where bureaucratic pressures on institutions and individuals have been linked with distressing events. Ron Barnett told me about Stefan Grimm, former Toxicology chair at Imperial College, who killed himself while under employment review having not met Imperial’s demanding grant income targets. But we have all, to some extent, been complicit in constructing the world we live in and we do what we can to make ourselves comfortable in it. We are all hypocrites.
Don’t get me wrong; I like what Readings is saying, he says it well, and he was clearly ahead of the game in forseeing all this. Also, he is not blaming the bureaucrats. He is correct right that a university focused purely on excellence serves nothing but itself, but a university is not an inanimate object, it consists of human beings who value stability and meaning in their lives. Would we level the same charge at a coal-mining community, desperate to preserve their livelihood? Thatcher clearly did, but I’d like to think we would approach the wicked problem of the future of the university with sensitivity, respect and patience. As agents we can enact change on the system, but the system acts on us as well (Archer 2007). We are products of it as well as agents within it.
In describing the breakdown of the nation-state, Readings identifies nationalism as a sign of this dissolution, recognising the conflicting desires that service globalisation. The ‘hollowing out’ (p47) of the state entails a loss of belief in a political alternative, as – he argues – a purely capitalist system actually offers a non-ideological belonging. In a capitalist system, everyone just has to focus on doing their own job effectively; there is no need to concern ourselves with finding universal answers to questions of the good life and human destiny. It is essentially a breakdown of the collaborative process and could be seen as a form of stress-avoidance; avoiding ‘conflict’, getting our heads down and getting on with it. I think people see it as trusting in nature. I certainly got the sense that many people see our true nature as individual and competitive rather than collective and collaborative when I attended last year’s book launch of Rethinking Capitalism. I am personally ambivalent and conflicted; the biology graduate in me says that we are both, and that this is one of the primary tensions in human nature; a yin and yang that we are constantly balancing. The psychedelic researcher in me says that we are all one consciousness, and the ego is a product of fear that stops us from working together and recognising our commonalities. Fear – resulting from trauma – is very efficiently transferred in a population. It is cumulative and reciprocal.
I’ve just ordered Jaroslav Pelikan’s ‘Idea of the University’, as Readings is intriguingly dismissive of Pelikan’s re-reading of Newman; he sees it as outdated (Pelikan was writing around 1960) and identifies its alternative title Apologia pro vita sua – ‘in defence of one’s own life’ – as particularly telling.
So, Readings and I agree entirely on the observation that the university has become self-serving (or self-sustaining). Of course it has. We live in a precarious and fast-changing world where jobs are less secure and the underlying commitments these sustain (families, home ownership) are ever more demanding. We are all concerned for our livelihoods. I often get the feeling reading polemic literature on the university that the authors – many with secure jobs that have prima facie meaning – feel that administrators are morally as well as intellectually bankrupt. I would rather live in a society with minimal bureaucracy, an economy founded on Jackson’s three C’s (care, craft, culture), and reduced working hours in line with the predictions of Keynes and the recommendations of the New Economics Foundation, but we cannot wait for the administrators to enact change; they alone do not have the capacity to free us all from the system. Academics may feel oppressed by the bureaucrats, but they would do well, I think, to mind Freire’s (1972) advice that our oppressors need liberating before we can become liberated ourselves.
Readings identifies consumerism as the biggest threat to university education and a ‘sign that the individual is no longer a political entity’ (p48), along with increased migration and internationalization. Citing Gérard Granel (1982), Readings argues that ‘it is now pointless to seek the destiny of the University in its capacity to realize the essence of a nation-state or its people’ (p48). Granel sought to redeem the University by giving it a negative coherence; an oxymoronic ‘coherent anarchy’ (Fynsk 1991, p350). These arguments are still alive in universities; many teachers at UAL are confused about whether we are supposed to be offering our students what they see as a British education. Most of them are fairly sure they know what a British education is, particularly in the creative subjects, but uncertainty abounds about why students from China come to Britain to study fine art, for example, when we hear that artists in China are being imprisoned for creating subversive works, and why they come to study fashion when the values and processes of the Chinese fashion industry are so different from our own. There is the colonial view that our Chinese students revere the British way and expect to return to China and influence their home culture (perhaps an example of American-globalisation of which Readings speaks). In addition are assumptions and theories about trade links, filial piety, social status and social capital. The true picture is undoubtedly complex.
Angst is rarely a productive way forward. Perhaps what is best is for us to continue to deliver what we think is a British education, with all the evaluation and reflection that entails (and openness to learning and influence of other cultures), and without endless pondering on what other nations want from us. Such a preoccupation suggests an unhealthy dependence and a diminished sense of identity. Here again we can call on Carl Rogers’ theory of human development, only for a nation of peoples rather than an individual. With authenticity, acceptance and understanding we can become the best we can be.
Readings is saying the essence of a nation-state has now dissolved, and cites Heidegger’s Rectorial Address as the final plea for universities to band together to fulfil the political will of the nation-state. Also lost, Readings claims, is any referent for culture. Readings describes CP Snow’s argument for two academic cultures as a ‘fascinating rhetorical ploy’ (p61), and highlights F.R. Leavis’ recognition of the significance of Snow’s treatise in the process of fragmentation.
Readings proceeds to place literary culture in opposition to technology (p61), and sketches out the philosophical notion of culture espoused by the German Idealists; founded on concepts such as Wissenschaft and Bildung, and preceding the fragmentation described by Snow. The German Idealists believed that only a unified academic culture would direct progress and innovation towards a ‘higher social unity’ (p61).
I’ll probably write more on that in a bit – it does overlap with recent posts, and I think now is the time to engage first-hand with Snow and Leavis’ famous argument. Watch this space.
Part 1 of my conference notes took us up to Saturday afternoon, when I had the very great pleasure of hearing Friederike Meckel-Fisher speaking about her therapeutic work. Friederike presented an approach that differs significantly from the therapy protocols developed and used by MAPS and the team at Imperial College; her approach is highly personalised, more physical/interventional, and involves pharmaceutical assistance for both the client and the therapist.
I found this last aspect of Friederike’s approach very interesting; it was something I’d asked Ben Sessa about the previous day, and also discussed with another therapist who had worked on clinical trials with MDMA. I’m interested in theorising the ‘informal’ therapeutic relationships that exist between friends or partners, particularly where they use psychedelics together in a mindful, developmental way, to support either an equal, mutual exchange or something more unidirectional. In either case, it makes sense to me that the process could benefit from both parties having increased empathy, openness, positivity, etc..
Thinking about therapeutic relationships in these terms – for me – brings into sharp relief questions of ethics and professionalism and humanity itself. To be a professional means to aim for the highest of standards in one’s practice; to commit fully to the principle of ‘do no harm’. It requires constant, rigorous reflection. A psychiatrist has to be a professional in every respect; the patient trusts them to provide the highest possible standard of care. In comparison, the ethics of friendship, parenting and other personal relationships are somewhat less well-defined. Again, Alexander Nehamas comes to mind with his refreshingly nuanced view of friendship, and many will be familiar with Philip Larkin’s This Be The Verse:
They fuck you up, your mum and dad. They may not mean to, but they do. They fill you with the faults they had And add some extra, just for you.
Most of us, I’m sure, have at some point got ourselves into a relationship where we feel like we’ve bitten off more than we can chew; one where we wanted to help – we thought we could – but we start to worry that we don’t have the right skill set, or that our own crap is getting in the way, and we may actually be making things worse. I have friends in this situation who’ve given an ultimatum as a form of referral (or last resort), saying they won’t continue to see the other person socially unless/until they seek professional help. I don’t know what it feels like to be on the end of an ultimatum like that. I think if it comes to that point then something must have gone wrong earlier on, either in terms of underestimating the issues, or overestimating one’s capacity to help. We could say that all personal relationships are, in a sense, therapeutic if they are to have any real meaning for us. Entering into any deep relationship is inherently risky, with or without the use of psychedelics. Perhaps the more powerful the substance – and the closer the relationship – the greater the risk. But perhaps, also, this is where the most profound gains can be made?
In any case, I feel like I got something of great value from Friederike; an understanding that if someone who is dealing with past trauma ‘freaks out’ or ‘shuts down’ (goes immobile, starts to shake or show other signs of life-threat, dissociation, etc.) then they may be re-living that trauma. Whether it is to do with being alone, neglected, or hurt, what the dissociated person needs is physical, empathetic, loving contact.
Sunday One of the first sessions I saw on Sunday had David Nichols presenting his findings on DMT and the pineal gland. David had taken it upon himself to kill off the romantic notion that naturally-produced DMT is responsible for the visions, euphoria and analgesia that accompany near-death experience (NDE) and life-threatening injury, and he did so with aplomb, sensitivity and academic rigour. While DMT may be present naturally in the brain, it is not found in effective concentrations and there is no evidence it can accumulate. David showed how the phenomenology of NDE could be explained by other systems, such as the robust and sustained surge of adrenaline, serotonin and dopamine seen in cases of asphyxia (suffocation). The rise in glutamate levels during asphyxia is notably similar to that achieved with ketamine. I didn’t personally think David killed the romance; he just added another layer of explanation. We know that during an NDE there is a large increase in the amount of neural signalling at gamma frequency (between 25 and 100 Hertz). The brain’s activity becomes highly synchronised; it is pulling out all the stops in order to maximise chances of survival. This increase in gamma power is also seen when people take DMT. So, there is still a physiological commonality between a DMT trip and an NDE, it’s just that the common causal factor is more likely to be something like gamma power, rather than DMT itself.
The penultimate session (after being persuaded into buying a raffle ticket from David Luke – what is going on? I never buy raffle tickets) was Ben Sessa in conversation with Julie Holland. I really enjoyed this. I like the way they did it and I especially liked the discussion about ‘hippies’ and whether we’re doing something wrong in the way we get the message out beyond this ‘microcosm of intense understanding’ about psychedelics. I’d been thinking about getting Julie’s book, Moody Bitches, but after spending a weekend connecting with some of the nicest people on the planet, I’m not sure I need to. The book’s central message is that our natural moods comprise a finely-tuned feedback system that should be paid attention to rather than medicated away. ‘Nuff said. The Ritalin’s gone back in the drawer. I’ve switched to decaf and am cutting down on the sleep aids. I feel really good. I googled ‘anti-inflammatory diet’ but it turns out I’m already doing it.
Finally, we had Rick Doblin’s update on the latest developments from MAPS. This was immense. I knew they are currently in between Phase 2 and 3 trials for MDMA-assisted psychotherapy, and that Phase 2 went so well they were able to apply for Breakthrough Therapy status, but it was great to hear about the process in more detail – and what we can do to help (donate!). I thought there are a couple of things MAPS are doing that are pure genius. One is the recruitment of a range of participants – from war veterans and fire fighters to victims of sexual abuse – that ensures bi-partisan media support. Another is the utilisation of couples therapy – where one partner has PTSD – to promote empathy and strengthen relationships, boosting the support patients receive at home and increasing the likelihood of a successful outcome. Currently the US spends 17 billion dollars annually on disability benefit for war veterans, and the Phase 2 MDMA trial had a 66% rate of success, compared to 23% for 40 hours of non-assisted therapy. These are compelling results. I felt such a rush of optimism during and after Rick’s talk. This work really does have the potential to change the world for the better.
I should also mention that one of the nicest things about the whole conference was bumping into one of my colleagues from UAL on the first day and finding out that he had been one of the subjects in Robin Carhart-Harris’s clinical trial of psilocybin for treatment-resistant depression. When I first met him as a participant on the PG Cert he was at rock bottom, and I think he even associated me with that very rough point in his life, so I was one of the last people he expected to see at Breaking Convention. Like most of the participants, he responded really well to the therapy and is no longer depressed. We got to hang out quite a bit and went to a lot of the sessions together, which was awesome.
Funnily enough, I was back at Greenwich today at another conference; this one was about the future of higher education (from a digital-technological perspective rather than a psychopharmacological one). I was googling things as I was going along (I like to check certain things as I write), and some of what I wanted to look at was getting blocked. I spent a while sending applications through for various pages to be reclassified under the topic ‘health’ rather than the forbidden category ‘illegal drugs’ – I wrote a little rationale which I copied and pasted – and just got an email through now to say that the pages had been reclassified. Small steps!
The feeling of immense love I got from Breaking Convention is still lingering. I feel the need to mention that personally the only psychoactive tools I used all weekend were a couple of iced coffees, three glasses of white wine and a few deep breaths. The conference was, in itself, a truly psychedelic experience.
Okay, so here’s something I learned in the last year or so: The best conferences happen at weekends. Obvious, really. If they’re worth giving up your weekend for, they’ve got to be good.
What *is* a hippy?
I just got back from Breaking Convention, and I can honestly say it was one of the most fabulous, educational and inspiring events I’ve ever been to. I arrived at tea time on Thursday and went for a quick run in Greenwich Park in the late afternoon sunshine before picking up my delegate pack from the university. While at the desk I was greeted by the incredible half man, half teddy bear Cameron Adams, who I felt a spontaneous urge to hug. This was surprising, and probably a little awkward, as we were shaking hands at the time.
The next morning, keen to avoid overthinking my own skit, I went along to the Philosophy and Mysticism sessions where I met Peter Sjostedt-H (who Richard and I recently interviewed for 3:am magazine), Chris Lethaby (who I’ve also sent questions to… watch this space), and Alessio Bucci. Alessio is a philosopher and cognitive scientist (or philosopher of cognitive science?) at the University of Turin, and his session sought to gain conceptual clarity around consciousness.
In The Conscious Mind, Dave Chalmers outlines some ‘common’ conceptions of consciousness that aren’t really consciousness at all (‘awareness’, etc), but this was next-level stuff (I’m sure Chalmers gets there eventually, I just didn’t get that far through the book yet). Alessio cited Jonkisz’s four-fold taxonomy of consciousness, explaining how the various conceptions of consciousness proposed by cognitive scientists and philosophers refer to four different sorts of criteria: epistemic (concerned with kinds of consciousness), semantic (dealing with orders of consciousness), physiological (reflecting states of consciousness), and pragmatic (seeking to capture sources of consciousness perhaps?).
An ‘altered state’ of consciousness therefore refers to a physiological model of consciousness. Alessio pointed out that – of course – when we talk of an ‘altered’ state we mean relative to a baseline. But what is that baseline? A notion of baseline consciousness may be useful, but it may also be too rigid. This – Alessio claimed – is why neuroimaging is useful for philosophers – they don’t have to just rely on phenomenological reports; they can triangulate.
I was very interested to hear him say this, because when I spoke at the Philosophy of Education conference I got the sense (and also a little explicit feedback) that philosophers of education have a deep distrust of brain scans. I learned a bit more about why this weekend, and I suspect I actually misrepresented the scans when talking to the PESGB. The ones I used were the ones from Robin Carhart-Harris’ 2014 study (another truly lovely person I met at BC) that showed the degree of integration – connectivity – between parts of the brain. There is a much higher level of disorder in the brain on LSD (Robin also talks about high ‘entropy’ and ‘criticality’) compared to the brain on placebo. Integration is obviously a more complex measure than blood flow – the meaning of which isn’t clearly theorised in any case – and is clearly of particular interest when examining altered or unusual states of consciousness. Apparently, low entropy brain states include deep sleep, coma, and psychologically fixated states like OCD and depression.
The implicit ‘baseline’ of consciousness would seemingly be that seen in normal, ‘healthy’, waking subjects. But Alessio claimed consciousness is ‘plastic’ and multifaceted. He cited Clark (2015), and Friston’s (2009) principle that brains are predictive machines. They are constantly in the business of predicting their own internal states.
I could see how this resonated with what I wanted to say in my own talk about the intertwining of education and therapy. Therapy is not simply one type of education. All deep learning involves thinking about how we think; i.e. metacognition. Psychedelics disrupt the hierarchy of prediction. The hypotheses that are subsequently deployed by the brain are less stable, and information is sought and received from unusual places.
I asked Alessio if he’d experienced much resistance from other philosophers about his use of neuroimaging data, and he said he hadn’t – not in the circles he moves in. He emphasised the importance of being aware of how the data is collected and the limitations of what it represents, before the data can be applied to the context. I think these are wise words whatever data you’re collecting really (even conversations with senior managers of universities… especially those).
I really enjoyed Chris Lethaby’s talk too. Having read almost his entire back catalogue of papers to prepare the questions for his 3:am interview, the contents were familiar to me, but he’s a great speaker and I found his talk really engaging. He addressed the question of whether the joyous cosmology of psychedelic consciousness was simply foisting a comforting delusion on the sick and the dying. He concluded that, while psychedelic therapy has epistemic flaws, it also has epistemic benefits. In experiencing phenomena that may not be ‘real’, one gains ‘real’ knowledge into one’s mind and its possibilities. So, Chris was also talking about metacognition. Psychedelic subjects gain experiential knowledge of their own psychological potential, and of the constructed nature of their sense of self.
I brought this idea into my own talk in the afternoon session. It was immensely enjoyable to tell the story of autoethnographic writing about psychedelic experience, and I got some heart-warming feedback from the audience over the weekend. Lots of people told me that writing openly in an academic context about how psychedelics had benefited me was a brave thing to do, and was valuable for the community in the way I had intended. They also appreciated the reflexivity I’d applied to the interactions I’d had with tutors and colleagues. I have the conference to thank for that, really, as it was in putting together the talk that I revisited the various email exchanges and discovered things my former self had written, done and felt that I’d completely forgotten about.
I was reminded throughout the conference that my own approach to disclosure is at one end of the spectrum. A lot of the really big names in psychedelic research have had the privilege of experiencing a range of psychedelic substances within clinical trials (not necessarily as a research subject; many trials require the therapists to experience the substance for themselves), but it’s not really about legality as there are many situations where we can and do take these substances legally (on psychedelic experience weekends, ayahuasca retreats, etc). It’s more the case that many researchers – especially those working in the hard science fields – feel that admitting to having personal experience of psychedelics would undermine the objectivity of their research.
One researcher whose work I particularly admire told me he doesn’t talk about what drugs he’s taken, like he doesn’t talk about his sex life. Personally, I’ll talk about my sex life to anyone who asks, but that didn’t seem like a wise point to make at the time, so I slunk off to talk to someone else (about sex, as it turned out. Funny that… or not).
Having had a gloriously long sleep (again, unusual and surprising), I literally ran to the university to catch Ken Tupper’s talk on entheogenic education. It was so good; he took us through a potted history of knowledge – about how natural philosophers became scientists, astrology gave rise to astronomy, alchemy to chemistry and so on. He also – echoing that first ever blog post I wrote almost a decade ago – cited Vygotsky in illustrating how our minds change with the development and application of cognitive tools. Such tools include mnemonic symbols, behavioural techniques; codes, reading/writing, schemes, arithmetic, psychedelic drugs, works of art; anything we use – or that can be put to use – to direct the workings of the mind. Even learning to use an abacus changes our neural architecture. I was reminded here of Ian Munday’s lecture at the IoE last Wednesday about film, and the discussion we had about film techniques influencing our mental narratives.
Ken explained that certain forms of knowledge are promoted by certain cognitive tools, and that some tools are particularly powerful; they have a ‘ratchet’ effect. He gave the examples of notches on sticks used to keep track of debts, and the Arabic/Hindu system of the numbers 1-9 that made arithmetic so much simpler. He cited a rather interesting-sounding book on how the merchants of Venice created modern accounting, and the societal impact of double-entry bookkeeping with credits and debits.
And then – resonating with the tone of other talks I saw, notably Nadia Erlam’s paper on cognitive dispossession and ‘neuroqueering’, and Adam Aronovich’s Sunday morning session – Ken spoke of statistics, the bell-shaped curve and the introduction of the concept of statistical normality which developed into a common sense of normality – ‘how things ought to be’ – and also its inverse; deviance and how it has become pathologised.
While psychotropic substances had a history of description as telescopes or microscopes of the mind, it was as early as the late 19th century that self-experimentation began to be thought of as unprofessional in the sense that it compromises one’s objectivity. Ken posed the question of the desirability of first hand knowledge:
To establish empathy with research subjects
To validate the interpretation of data
To participate in emerging of discourses of intersubjectivity
He asked – what can we really know from not having the experience of psychedelics? What is the status of Traditional Indigenous Knowledge (TIK)? Why is modern Western quantitative science the touchstone for epistemological validity? Are we inappropriately imposing our Western scientific framework?
I asked Ken to elaborate on this in the discussion as I was curious to know how he felt Western science and TIK could be mediated; whether we can we find a common language. He gave me a couple of gems to follow up; one was Jeremy Nardy, who is currently working in this area in Canadian universities, and the other was Joseph Bastien – an anthropologist who worked in the Andes in the late 1980s.
The afternoon session continued the theme of cognitive tools with Tom Roberts, an educationalist from the US who’s been teaching a module on psychedelics for several years. I’d met Tom the day before after my talk as he’d very kindly scribbled the name of a couple of his books on a postcard for me (I have since ordered them both). Tom was asking a question that interests me greatly – what is the fullest development of the human mind, and how do we reach it? He proposed an alternative direction for the field of ‘artificial intelligence’ that focuses on the possibilities of neuroscience rather than those of digital technologies. He suggested that the cognitive tools of today – yoga, mindfulness, meditation, psychedelics, etc. – could be combined in myriad ways to powerful effect. An obvious point, perhaps, but not a common topic at the conference, unless you count the drug part and the therapy part of psychedelic therapy as separate tools (most people wouldn’t, I think). At the moment the community is very focused on demonstrating the potential of particular, specific substances and therapies, and the scientific method demands controlled testing. But anecdotally, people are certainly using a range of tools in their own exploratory practice and finding complementary groupings.
I’m only halfway through the conference and halfway through my notes at this point, so I’ll have to make this a two-parter! Part 2 will cover psychiatry, MDMA, DMT, the pineal gland and near-death experience, the relationship between plants and humans, value memes, hippies, war veterans and an overwhelming sense of optimism. BRB.
I referred in an earlier post to Von Humboldt’s specification of Wissenschaft (the ‘broad science’ that goes on in universities) as a communal endeavour in the service of Bildung.
Bildung was the topic of this week’s PESGB seminar at the IoE, which was given by Asger Sørensen. Adorno described Bildung as the subjective aspect of culture; it refers not the Kantian idea of culture itself, but to its acquisition. I’m not sure why it’s considered notoriously difficult to translate into English. I think ‘cultivation’ – cultivation of the self – is fine. Isn’t it?
Sørensen’s abstract was as follows:
In German, the term Bildung has a special status in discourses on education, upbringing and formation, by some hailed as the ultimate ideal, by others dismissed as just another ideological construction. Trying to stay clear of these extremes, I will employ the idea of Bildung to develop the notion of Citizenship Education, discussing in particular how Habermas uses the concept in his theory of democracy in Between Facts and Norms. The hunch is that a “discursively formed public opinion can represent a process of Bildung or education in which citizens build better foundations to their opinions through discursive interaction.
Clearly these ideas have a great deal of relevance to my thesis on the purpose of universities. Also, I’ve just bought Habermas’ The Future of Human Nature to inform my work on cognitive and moral enhancement, so this was all very interesting. I was puzzled when Anders told us that, initially, Habermas described the connection between education and power/wealth as ‘illegitimate’ (that’s something I wonder about all the time – why should graduates get paid more than non-graduates? I just don’t get it), but later took on a view that resonates with Michael Young’s concept of powerful knowledge; a can’t-beat-them-join-them stance that entails comprehensive inculcation of high culture, so that all have the opportunity to be powerful.
My ‘fun’ reading this week is Owen Jones’ first book Chavs: the demonisation of the working class. Reading this, and hearing Anders talk about Habermas and his view on enculturation, reminded me how I felt when David gave us a book chapter on culture by E.D.Hirsch. Hirsch – and I feel uncomfortable writing this because I’m sure I often do as well – comes across as a snob. At the time I felt like he was trying to articulate why his tastes are ‘good’ and others are not, but his rationale didn’t quite hold water.
Since then, I’ve often thought how certain kinds of art, literature and music might be said to be ‘better’ than others. I came to a view that the good ones must make a greater, deeper contribution to our wellbeing than other kinds (because that, to me, is our ultimate aim – wellbeing). Some examples of obviously bad works in this sense include ‘lifestyle’ magazines that are explicitly designed to make us feel flawed and deficient, and romances that leave us feeling disappointed with the reality of love. Near the beginning of this talk, Alain de Botton accuses Walt Disney of peddling the kind of false hope that is a root cause of our anger, and explains how it is the job of philosophy to ‘let us down gently’.
Moving beyond the immediately obvious – and maybe this is what Hirsch was trying to say and I just didn’t see it at the time – but a lot of pop culture – films, novels, TV and music – tends to ignore complexity, cut out the harmonious (and mundane) elements of life, and present only a thin slice of conflict, drama, violence and/or eros. I don’t think this is good for our wellbeing. Zeldin writes about an aspect of this; he argues that in order to see alternatives to violent conflict we need more works that portray people getting along, embracing difference and learning about one another and themselves. Nehamas also alludes to similar matters when he speaks about the difficulty of portraying friendship – particularly visually – without drama. You can see that on the cover of his book (see left) he resorts to using fruit.
I enjoy films that people like E.D.Hirsch would consider ‘high culture’; films that portray situations and characters that are complex, nuanced and unpredictable. I like films that give you plenty of time to really notice and think about what you’re seeing. These are the kinds of films I watched at home with my dad when I was a child, and it’s highly likely they were instrumental in my becoming a deep and critical thinker. If I’d been raised on Disney and action movies, would I have seen the world more in black and white, good and evil? I don’t think a polarised way of looking at the world – or people – is healthy for us as individuals, or for society. So, maybe that’s a way in which ‘high’ and ‘low’ culture differs, that I can get behind.
The idea of ‘powerful knowledge’ just doesn’t wash with me. For a start, it appears unashamedly arbitrary in its content – this is what powerful people know, like and appreciate, so if you know and appreciate it too, you can join their gang. But my primary issue with it is that in the UK today we have an incredibly unequal society where wealth and power is concentrated in the hands of very few. An ‘enculturing’ education with the end of upward social mobility for the lower classes is not going to fix that. Unfortunately for those with the wealth and the power, we also need to apply pressures that create downward mobility if we are to achieve a more equal society. Sorry guys.
I want to return to something I wrote in my last post about encountering different approaches to life. I was responding to Karl Jaspers’ claim that tension between the individual and the world is necessary for self-knowledge and a true life; that we can never truly know another’s experience, but become ‘more whole’ by encountering the boundaries. There is a common thread running through this and the Nehamas interview, and Gadamer, Zeldin and Sachs’ writings on conversation and difference. Newman touches on it in his Idea of the University when he speaks of ‘a school of knowledge of every kind, consisting of teachers and learners from every corner’, and it is this universality that many still consider the archetypal feature of the University.
A similar concept lies behind some highly successful TV shows; Wife Swap, Undercover Boss, Faking It, Rich House – Poor House, Supersize/Superskinny. Every episode sees the protagonist stepping into someone else’s shoes, immersing themselves in another life and coming away not only with a deeper understanding of the other, but also a fresh perspective on themselves.
One thing that hooked me into the Nehamas interview was his argument that there is no universal morality (I like this line of thought). While rejecting moral relativism, Nehamas points out that moral laws do not assume there is a single type of life that is good for all. If morality were universal we would not need rules. We construct laws – and social norms – that are applicable down to the ‘lowest common denominator’. Adjusting to them can, however, prevent us from living well; ‘rules’ for becoming an individual can be self-undermining. Nehamas likens the becoming of a person to the production of a great work of art, in that there is no recipe, no rule; we can only formulate the principles afterwards. He argues that certain lives are particularly admirable because of their differences from the lives of those around them, and so it is with art. To model life on the making of art – to engage in the ‘art of living’ – is to go one’s own way; to take ‘the road less travelled’, as Scott Peck would say.
When Richard asked him if living is an art that can be taught, Nehamas’ response seemed to underscore a conception of a ‘good’ or ‘admirable’ life as one that is, in some way, emergent or exceptional. I think – I suspect – that this Nietzschean concept of the ubermensch is often spoken of in these terms, and I find it problematic.
Consider again Carl Rogers’ presentation of what one might describe as a common process for learning to live well; a process that is founded on authenticity, acceptance and understanding. Rogers was a psychotherapist. His view of human becoming is one of mending what is broken; making the dysfunctional functional. If we view becoming from this angle, the analogy between life and art breaks down. When we describe an artwork as ‘good’, we generally mean there is something exceptional about it. If we speak of artworks as ‘good enough’ or ‘satisfactory’, we imply a lack of sorts; a disappointment. Art is art by way of its exceptionality. Why might we have higher standards for art than we do for our lives? Perhaps it is because with art we start with a blank canvas, whereas in ‘creating’ ourselves, our lives, we have to work with what is already there at the point that we start to become autonomous. By this time a lot of damage has already been done!
Design is judged differently to art. Design’s beauty is functional; we may find its form pleasing, but design may equally be considered ‘good’ by virtue of its unobtrusiveness, or its ability to make a difficult task easy. I would like to argue that living well has – or should have – more in common with design than with art, and that perhaps there is – as Rogers suggests – a common process that will set one on a trajectory to the good life.
Rogers’ recipe – authenticity, acceptance and understanding – brings us back to the question of our relations with others, and the value of universality. In being authentic and working to accept and understand the other, we learn about the world and ourselves.
We’ve just had another general election, and what is truly remarkable about the result to me is that it shows how stable (or stubborn) our individual political leanings are. It seems that the significant shifts in voting have been from those who didn’t vote before, and those who voted for a smaller, more radical party in 2015 out of frustration with a watered-down primary opposition. What these groups want hasn’t changed; it’s just that no-one with a cat in hell’s chance of winning many seats – let alone a parliamentary majority – seemed to be offering it. It’s not so much that the public mood has shifted; more that the primary opposition is finally offering what these people want.
Now there are post-election polls showing that this effect is continuing; that the belief in the ability of the opposition to form a government is strengthening, and that were we to have another election soon we would be looking at a different result again. But I don’t think anyone is actually suggesting that blues will turn to reds in significant numbers. Do we have ‘floating voters’ that oscillate directly between Tory and Labour? Is that a thing? Has it ever been?
On election day I considered telephoning my German grandmother. She lives in East Hampshire – a secure Conservative seat with a high voter turnout. She never votes. Her companion (lodger/whatever) Ron voted to leave the EU. I thought we could discuss the the implications of privatising the NHS (Ron has diabetes, she has dementia), and selling her house to pay for care. That’s a policy that doesn’t bother me personally – it’s not like she’s going to need it – but it would bother her (and where would Ron live? Not with me).
I wanted to get them out to vote at least. If they voted Tory, what the hell, but at least they would have needed to think about why, because I would have asked them to. And if they’d chosen to share those reasons with me – Ron never holds back with his political views – I hoped I’d be able to listen, and accept, and try to understand. But it all seemed too difficult, and awkward, and ultimately pointless. Crucially, I heard my mother’s voice in my head, screeching ‘what were you doing, getting her all panicked like that? She’s in her 90’s for god’s sake, and East Hampshire would vote for a rotting corpse as long as it was wearing a blue bloody rosette.’
I still wish I’d called them. I was being a wuss. I took the easy option and told myself it didn’t matter. I think a lot of this hinges on our need to feel that others approve of us, and I’ll come back to that.
Last year Julie Beck also did a nice interview with Nehamas that focused on friendship and art. Nehamas’ view on friendship is both complex and simple; he explains at length why friendship is not intrinsically ‘good’ – and here we realise that, while Nehamas has ideas about the good life, he is ambivalent about whether friendship contributes to that. While it would be fair to assume that we like our friends because of what we have in common, Nehamas argues in both interviews that the opposite is also true; we are drawn to others because they are different to us, and we believe that our lives will be different – better – with them in it. But friendship, like beauty, is a non-moral value; it is double-edged and can be dangerous.
For Nehamas, friendship is a means to transformation. He claims that ‘when you feel that your relationship with somebody will not change you in any way… the relationship is over.’ This resonates with me a great deal. The idea that other people enter relationships for the purposes of self-development is startling (I thought it was only me that did that), but the more I think about it, the more I think that Nehamas is onto something here.
It is easy to read Gadamer, Zeldin and Sachs and be carried away by their enthusiasm for conversation and mutual change and the seeking of new solidarities. They make it sound more effective than I am finding it to be. I did my final thesis conversation today, and I enjoyed it immensely (my new book on The Art of Conversation has been very helpful). I’m still not sure that I’ve captured any real disagreement, and maybe that’s never going to happen when two individuals get together in private, away from the cheerleading or judgement of our peers; our instinct to get along is too strong. One counter-example I can think of is when Toby Young pulled a similar stunt to me at the 2015 Tory party conference, but given that he explicitly set out to create newspaper-worthy friction and usually doesn’t hold back in his derision of lefties, his account is surprisingly tame (I wrote about my own experience here). I’d love to see a full transcript of his conversation with the protester; I bet they actually warmed to one another, not that Young would admit to that. Reconciliation, peaceful conflict, whatever we call it – it requires us to put our energies into being kind rather than being right, which it’s very difficult to do when you’re convinced that the other person is wrong.
Colleagues and friends working in education often tell me they would find it very hard to talk to Toby Young, and they don’t see what it would achieve for them to accept him and to understand his perspective. They may even consider such an approach dangerous in its supposed quietism. Carl Rogers (1967) recognises this as a natural educational reaction:
‘What is life for if we are not going to do things to people? What is life for if we are not going to teach them the things that we think they should learn?’ (p21)
But, he maintains that
‘The more an individual is understood and accepted, the more he tends to drop the false fronts with which he has been meeting life and the more he tends to move in a direction which is forward.’ (p27)
We are scared to try to understand another, because it might change us. And yes, the more we are open to being ourselves and accepting the other, the more change is stirred up. But according to Rogers, all this is change in a positive direction. So, if I were to have a conversation with Toby Young along these lines, it is likely to change me in some way; but in a positive way. Not (necessarily!) the blatant persuasion that Toby had in mind at the conference; there many other ways in which such a conversation might change both of us for the better.
Wyatt, J.F. 1982. Karl Jaspers’ The Idea of the University: An existentialist argument for an institution concerned with freedom. Studies in Higher Education 7 (1), pp21-34.
I’m still playing around with Newman’s Idea of the University and have been delving into other ‘Ideas’ to lend my reading of it more depth. I’ve also been trying out a few of my thoughts about Newman’s Idea on my research participants. Transcribing these bits has been, well, interesting. I do have a tendency to go off on one when I’m talking about something I’m really into.
I came across this piece on Karl Jaspers the other day. It was one of those serendipitous right-hand-column discoveries you make when browsing Taylor & Francis journal articles. It’s almost as old as I am, but – like me – still fresh as a daisy 😉
Karl Jaspers wrote the first version of The Idea of the University shortly after the first world war, and published an extensively revised version at the end of WW2. It was translated into English in 1960 during the period of intense public debate on higher education that preceded the Robbins report. In his Idea, Jaspers – an existentialist – presents the search for truth as paramount and equates it to the human search for wholeness. Like Newman, he identifies the ultimate end of this search for truth as ‘human development & advancement’, while maintaining a decidedly conservative view of how this is to be achieved. He emphasises the transmission of culture – a complex concept, but primarily disciplinary culture – in addition to, and as distinct from, the other two objectives of the university – research and the transmission of knowledge. Distinct, but inseparable; these three activities join forces to ‘direct the individual to the frontiers’.
Jaspers identifies three modes of learning that take place in universities; schooling, apprenticeship and Socratic dialogue. He places particular emphasis on the latter. Jaspers’ ideal university is a ‘community of thinking’ that seeks wholeness and truth through a Socratic system. For him, this is ideal because it is formative, not isolated, and moves its participants towards ‘meaningful freedom’; a phrase also used often by his pupil Hannah Arendt. ‘Freedom of the intellect’ – academic freedom – is for Jaspers the archetypal feature of the university.
In this respect, Jaspers is thought to differ somewhat from Von Humbolt, and more so from Heidegger (I’ve been reading a recent piece by Mark Sinclair on these two). Von Humbolt was all in favour of the unencumbered pursuit of Wissenschaft (rough translation – broad science), but specified it as a communal endeavour, in the service of Bildung and bound to Geist. If there is anything about the Humboltian ideal that Jaspers was explicitly rejecting, I suspect it would have been these slippery notions and their susceptibility to appropriation (they may seem more slippery to me because I am only 25% German). Indeed, Heidegger – during his brief period as the National Socialist rector of Freiburg University in the 1930s – was said to have radicalised Von Humbolt’s position, criticising Lehrfreiheit and arguing for a Gemeinschaft – a genuine community – as opposed to a fully autonomous Gesellschaft (yet again I am struck by how the Germans really have got the better language for discussing these matters!).
Jaspers classified knowledge into two different types; the ‘universal’, and the ‘individual’ or ‘unique’. It sounds like this division corresponds pretty well to what we might call the sciences (including e.g. sociology) and the arts, but Jaspers’ labelling is interesting; it highlights that ‘universal’ knowledge is about identifying rules – laws of nature. This led me to consider whether the other kind of knowledge – I think ‘particular’ is a better term – is concerned with exceptions. I’m still wondering about that.
Jaspers was of the mind that the quality of an institution was not determined by what it taught, so much as the methods of teaching and the quality of those who teach. He writes about the courage to educate – an idea echoed by inspirational writers like Paulo Freire and Parker Palmer – claiming that teaching requires us to trust in the dormant possibilities of human nature. For Freire, ‘education is an act of love, and thus an act of courage’, and I propose the two are saying (roughly) the same thing. In loving, we give something of ourselves that we may not get back. We make ourselves vulnerable; we invest with no guarantee of return. This may sound less like trusting in the possibilities of human nature than gambling on it, but if the giving – the work we do – is rewarding in itself, then it is not a gamble. Many wise people feel that way about love as well – that to love without need or expectation is, paradoxically, the most rewarding way to love.
Wyatt calls attention to the problem of an existentialist arguing for the maintenance of an antiquated institution such as a university, and explains how Jaspers reconciles this, particularly given the particularly rigid departmental structures of German universities in the interwar period. Jaspers was writing about what the university should become rather than what it was, and his ideal was focused on the human possibilities of becoming whole. Key to his Idea is that tension between the individual and the world is a necessary condition of existence; it leads to self-knowledge and a true life. We can never truly know another’s experience, but we become more whole by encountering the boundaries. This resonates with Richard’s recent 3:am interview with Alexander Nehamas on Nietzsche and friendship, in which Nehamas explains that, while morality depends on similarity, friendship depends on and encourages difference. Friendship is essential to our becoming a person in that it enables us to try different ways of being; different approaches to life. I like that interview a lot – it certainly encapsulates why I’m friends with Richard 😉
Jaspers joins Newman, Heidegger and Von Hombolt in their call for unified universities, arguing that specialist institutions break up the opportunity for communication between the forms of knowledge. He argues for ‘a form of [collective] thinking which constantly strives to connect the various modes to form a totality’; to make possible the shared pursuit of truth. There are genuine basic differences between forms of knowledge, and communication gives us an awareness of these differences. Such conversations should aim to be productive and educative, not necessarily reconciling. This is a crucial point, and worth underscoring given my earlier attempts at titling my thesis. Am I hoping to reconcile different imaginations of the university? Is this possible? Advisable? Possibly not.
While Newman is clear on the kind of (responsible) character a university education produces (providing a list of specifics to rival Darcy’s ‘accomplished woman’), Jaspers argues that this should be considered a by-product rather than a conscious aim. He claims that it is not a university’s task to produce leaders of the people; the qualities of a good leader and a good scholar are not the same.
I might accuse Jaspers of contradicting himself here, but that’s because we disagree about what makes a good leader! Jaspers would cite willpower, resoluteness and pragmatism, while I – echoing Carl Rogers (1961) – would emphasise authenticity, acceptance and understanding. Rogers attests that these qualities are applicable to all human relationships, and I would add that looking at leadership from a relational perspective explains why we lead more effectively in some contexts than others. For example, I am good at my job because I am at ease among academics and teachers, have developed a warm regard for those I work with, and have come to understand their frustrations. Conversely, volunteering for Crisis at Christmas, where I felt unsure of myself, and the guests’ hardship was beyond my understanding, I was barely fit for guarding the janitor’s cupboard. At the time, my incompetence surprised and upset me. This is the problem with assuming that effective leadership is comprised of fixed personal traits like determination and pragmatism; it does not prepare us for the re-learning that is required – the relational work that needs to be done – when we find ourselves in a completely different situation.
Life has many facets and we may all in some way be leaders, but according to Jaspers and Newman we are not all scholars – nor should we be. Jaspers is clear that higher education *should* be preserved for the few; an ‘intellectual aristocracy’ that represents the possibility of mankind. I was not wholly convinced by Newman’s argument on this, and Jaspers’ view – as Wyatt observes – also comes across as elitist and paternalistic. Collini’s (2012) argument for reversing expansion is persuasive on practical grounds, but philosophically I find it jarring. I like to imagine a world where we are all engaged in the pursuit of truth, but not by sending increasing numbers of 18 year olds to university… something more universal, more inclusive than that. Not sure what yet.
Oaskeshott, M. J. 1967. The Definition of a University. The Journal of Educational Thought / Revue de la Pensée Éducative, 1 (3), pp. 129-142
Writing four years after the publication of the Robbins report, Oakeshott responds here to a ‘confusion about the nature of a university and the character of a university education’. We could call it confusion. We could also call it ‘diversification’, or simply ‘change’.
I need to remind myself what benefit(s) Robbins had in mind when he decided that such a significant increase in the proportion of the population would benefit from a university education. Did he imagine that the influence would work both ways? That the university would indeed have an effect on this broader population of students, but the students would have an effect of equal significance on the university? Students are not the only agents in the system; students’ families, and those who employ their skills post-graduation, also push back on the structure of the university.
Unlike before, I found myself irritated by Oakeshott’s prose. For some reason, today, I seem to have projected a pompous tone onto it. The idea of a university as ‘resisting attempts to define it’ is irksome; the university is surely more a structure of our own construction than an actor in itself. He makes unsupported assumptions that students come with mixed or uncertain expectations. I have little sympathy for his discomfiting ontological doubt – I’m sure he would rather his own position was more stable. Wouldn’t we all. Welcome to supercomplexity, Michael – I imagine you still retired with a decent pension and a spare bedroom.
Oakeshott acknowledges the impact of the students – where they have come from, where they are going – on the university. (p134). He argues in favour of its place following on from compulsory schooling; ‘the most impressionable years’, where interests and relationships are formed for life, and momentous decisions are made. He is of the opinion that a university is a more ‘favourable’ context for these happenings to occur (this would be an interesting argument to interrogate). He does, however, describe these happenings as ‘chance opportunities’ rather than the ‘gifts it intentionally affords’, drawing on the rather dubious simile of a railway station as shelter from the rain.
I think what he goes on to say on p135 exposes the blurred boundary between the two; a boundary that Newman – writing 100 years earlier – did not attempt to draw.
Oakeshott describes a university education as a specialisation; the acquisition of a single skill, incorporating a body of ‘strictly limited’ information. The aim as he sees it is for man to fill a specific place in his society and to satisfy a current demand; to sustain a current manner of living. This vision is wholly conservative. Even his ‘different and complementary way’ of regarding the ‘inheritance of human achievement’ is concerned with understanding, explaining and sustaining our existing condition, rather than imagining and creating any future condition.
And then, out of nowhere, he describes these as ‘the skills we need for transforming the world’. Where did that come from? He also acknowledges that studying history or science, for example, when one is not oneself going to become an historian or a scientist, may be a defensible course of action, as the world needs those who can recognise and appreciate great works without necessarily participating in (creating?) them. So I’m left doubting the certainty of his position.
I like this bit…
“not being comparable to a light-industry (having no product, in the strict sense), nor to a store (having no sales-list of items for disposal), a university is apt to confound the accountants. Profit and loss, cost and return on capital are not easily calculable; indeed, there is something inappropriate in making the calculations. It illustrates the truth that there is nothing great in the world that does not involve waste, and that the human propensity to avoid waste (which has itself been erected into a science) is, perhaps, one of our greatest intellectual vanities.” (p139)
…and what really illuminates how much has changed since Oakeshott’s time is his recollection of his own experience at university, which as I am finding through my own conversations is a crucial factor in our individual understandings of the university as a concept: ‘…the feeling of being emancipated from the pressures of immediate achievement… the opportunity to make mistakes without having to pay heavily for them.’ (p140-141).
Here, Oakeshott repeats his claim that the university was the way it was because of his own wants and expectations, and those of his companions. He feels that if these had been different, the university as it was would have dissolved. He focuses in particular on the perception of a university degree as a ‘passport to social prestige, to power and to emolument’ (now, that’s a lovely word!). He observes that – even in 1967! – we have gone too far in this direction, and says that ‘we are wrong to confine our admiration to these [qualities]’ – again, a statement that is ripe for unpacking.
“The time may come when, in the face of the vulgarity of a single-minded devotion of the exploitation of the world and of the barbarism of instant affluence, learning will have to hide its head, and universities will survive only by the exercise of the courage of their calling and by becoming retreats devoted to keeping alive, in hostile circumstances, the great disinterested enquiries of mankind. But that time is not yet.” (p.142)
Is that time now, or is it too late? Did we already sell ourselves down the river?
Blessinger, P. and Anchan, J. P. 2015. Democratizing Higher Education: International Comparative Perspectives. Routledge.
I bought this book over a year ago for a princely sum, fresh off the first print run. When it arrived I was disappointed – not only because of the boring black spine with white letters (my bookshelves are ordered by colour) – the content looked pretty dull too.
I’m pretty confident the editors won’t read this (I wrote to Patrick Blessinger once and he didn’t reply), so I’ll be candid. For a start, it reads like the authors themselves weren’t particularly interested in what they were writing. Another major issue is the amount of unnecessary padding. A degree of repetition is understandable – necessary even – if you are setting up a novel and complex argument. If all you want to get across is that higher education systems are generally getting messier (except perhaps in Scandinavia, which is undergoing a sort of higher education spring clean, and Russia, where we’ve really no idea what’s going on), and that an understanding of global trends in HE policy and governance enables those who work in HE to view their practice in context, I don’t think that needs repeated explanation.
When I met Ron Barnett for tea and hobnobs, he impressed on me the importance of gaining a global perspective on these matters, given my desire to generate novel imaginings of the University. In hindsight, I should have just picked a diverse selection of countries and read about their HE systems on Wikipedia, but I paid good money for this book and I refuse to let it get the better of me. I also refuse to spend any longer on it after today. This post is getting written tonight, then I’m going to watch an hour of Bladerunner (which I’ve been told will fill a gaping chasm in my cultural education), and then I’m going to go to bed. Tomorrow will be a new day, without this book in it.
I’m going to run through the countries & regions covered in the book and just pick out things that were novel and of interest to me.
The US I knew about the whole community college/public university/private university split (mainly from watching the surreal comedy series Community). What I didn’t know was that racial segregation still has a pronounced legacy in the US HE system, with over 100 historically black colleges and universities (HBCUs). I enjoyed reading about these on Wikipedia; there are some interesting stats there about student wellbeing, academic support, etc., that shed some light on the attainment gap we have at UAL. It seems that in the US the stratification or clustering of HE institutions into different types is more pronounced (and more accepted?) than in the UK, where standardised metrics (REF/TEF/NSS) nudge us towards homogeneity.
Tuition fees at public universities in the US are similar to the UK, but have been that way for much longer, resulting in student loans being second only to mortgages in consumer debt. Most of the debt is federal, but there are several private student loan companies too (maybe you need a private student loan to attend a private university?!). The state of Oregon wants to pilot a graduate tax scheme called Pay It Forward, but that fact that it would take 20 years to pull in a surplus is apparently making everyone a bit too twitchy. Oh, short-term world.
There is no national education system in Canada; education is governed through the provinces (10) and territories (3). The full cost of university tuition is expensive – around twice that of the UK and US – with government funding focused on providing financial aid to the poorest 30%. Canada’s vast, rural territories are a real challenge to universal access. Long distances are a big issue. Canada led the way in ed tech development, but internet connectivity in rural areas is pretty poor too. First Nations people are underrepresented in Canadian universities with only 8% holding degrees.
I knew about the Bologna process and its aim of making credit frameworks compatible and facilitating the international movement of students. I didn’t know that the European HE Area had set common aims around widening access and quality assurance as well. Given that this is the case, I was a bit shocked to read that only half the Bologna countries systematically monitor participation in HE (by e.g. disability, gender, educational background etc). I guess I’m pretty used to everything being measured here.
I found it quite amusing that the EHEA doesn’t compare the quality of education itself – each country has its own QA measures, so it is the robustness of these quality assurance frameworks that is measured and then compared. Ha. Measuring the quality of quality. Love it.
Portugal has access strategies in place that lower entry requirements for certain groups. They sound a bit blunt, a bit clunky… but hey, it’s a small country. I like Portugal. Great place.
Scandinavian countries have always had a strong commitment to the public funding of higher education. Saying that, neoliberalism does appear to be peering over the wall, notably in Denmark with the introduction of the Danish Productivity Commission. The rate of participation in HE is growing across Scandinavia and the current trend is towards centralisation, and merging of institutions.
Denmark has seen a massive reversal of the diversification of its HE institutions since the millennium, with large-scale mergers resulting in a shrinkage from around 150 institutions to only seven regional university colleges, nine business colleges and eight universities. Tuition is free for school-leavers, but a parallel system of work-based higher learning is only part-funded by the state.
In Sweden HE courses are free to all European citizens; other applicants have to pay full fees. Norwegian higher education is still free for everyone.
Most Scandinavian students leave home to go to university and, while financial support for students is relatively generous, many work to support themselves. Living costs in Scandinavia are relatively high – with the post-Brexit exchange rate, student living costs are comparable to London.
New Zealand appears to be grappling with similar issues to Canada regarding the educational attainment and social equality of its indigenous people (Maori and Pacific Islanders). New Zealand has eight universities, 20 polytechnics and three Wananga; publicly-owned institutions that provide university level education in a Maori cultural context.
Students contribute to tuition fees at a more modest level than in the UK/US, but this is on the rise as participation increases. Student loans have been interest-free since 2005. There is a shortage of graduate-level jobs. While there is a concern that NZ universities are slipping down the league table rankings due to policies that favour low student fees, modest public investment, and increased participation, the Tertiary Education Commission (TEC) is primarily concerned with the influence of universities on the economy.
The South African HE system underwent complete restructuring since the end of Apartheid in 1994 and the dissolution of the Black (‘Bantu’) Education Act. Old institutions have merged and new comprehensive colleges have been set up. The country is aiming for a differentiated system of universities and community colleges, similar to the US, but the system remains unstable and the prognosis is uncertain. Internet connectivity is an issue.
Higher education has always been under state control in Russia. There have been periods of greater independence, for example following perestroika from 1985 to the 1990s. The chapter on Russia makes frequent allusions to ‘distorted measurements’ and gaps between official data and reality. The mobility of students between states is restricted because of the funding infrastructure, and international mobility is hampered by a number of factors, including money and language as well as differences in curriculum and credit transfer. 50% of students study on correspondence courses. Participation is decreasing, as is the number of higher education institutions. Closures and mergers are being executed in line with criteria that sound rather more absurd than those of the TEF. So we should count ourselves lucky, hey?
High demand for undergraduate study in Hong Kong has resulted in a second tier of institutions offering sub-degrees; the limited number of publicly-funded institutions offering these having higher status than those requiring self-financing. This has some similarities with the community college system in the US, and the growth of community colleges in India.
Malaysia appears to have gone the whole hog with expanding and marketising its higher education system. The rhetoric in this chapter is very familiar – it is all about excellence and is unashamedly corporate.
In the penultimate chapter, Blessinger links back to Dewey’s seminal work Democracy and Education, I guess to make some sort of justification of why it is right and proper that higher education should be moving in the direction it is. He argues that as our social systems become more complex and interconnected, we need more formal, prolonged systems of learning to function properly within them.
And that’s about as much as I can take of this book.
Kreber, C. 2014. Rationalising the nature of ‘graduateness’ through philosophical accounts of authenticity. Teaching in Higher Education, 19 (1), pp90-100.
While the internet was down at work, I read this. I hadn’t heard of Carolin Kreber before; her work was suggested to me by a fellow EdD student at our last meeting in Oxford, and I’m pretty happy about having found her.
Kreber makes connections between graduateness and authenticity. She equates Ron Barnett’s ‘capacity for coping with strangeness’ (2005, p794) with openness to experience, and explains how this links up with what she describes as an existential dimension of authenticity; how human being is affected by, and deals with, the challenges of being in the world. She presents this disposition of openness as a prerequisite for the development of qualities of moral commitment and responsible engagement (Sullivan & Rosin 2008) which follow from the critical and communitarian dimensions of authenticity.
Kreber cites Sullivan and Rosin’s (2008) suggestion that the purpose of higher education is to enable learners to participate and identify with ‘something that is larger than oneself’. For Sullivan and Rosin, with their emphasis on responsible community engagement, this ‘something’ is social, and it resonates strongly with Hogan’s view of education as ‘the uncovering and nourishment of human potentials that benefits others as much as the self’. One of my research participants had an alternative take on this idea of something ‘larger than’ or ‘beyond’ the self, emphasising not only the public good aspect, but the role of higher education in showing an individual other possible ways of being, other than who they are now, and I’ll come back to that in a bit.
My attention was drawn to Kreber’s thoughts on ‘strangeness’. I don’t recall coming across the word in Barnett’s work, and I was intrigued (as I often am by the German language) by Kreber’s translation of ‘unheimliche’; something that is strangely familiar and therefore ‘uncanny’ rather than simply ‘strange’. Uncanny is a word I’ve used in the past without really thinking about what it really means, and the contexts in which we tend to use it, which are closely tied with human likenesses.
Further investigation on the Google revealed this rather fun chart of human likeness against familiarity, featuring the ‘uncanny valley’ of negative emotional response:
Not massively relevant to the philosophy of higher education, I know. Let’s move on.
Kreber proposes that students today are met with two challenges – one being what Barnett calls epistemological uncertainty, with rapid advancements in knowledge – and the calling into question of truth – leading to an awareness that the future is uncertain and unpredictable. Barnett (2007, p36-37) claims the challenge is made ‘supercomplex’ by the incompatibility of different interpretations of the world, which are increasingly coming up against one another as a product of globalisation and disciplinary specialisation.
Having spoken with Ron personally about this, I know he is optimistic about creating shared understandings. As I gather the data for my thesis, I’ve started to wonder whether our knowledge frameworks are as incompatible as we like to believe. Do we – as Theodore Zeldin observes in his book Conversation – focus on difference because we love drama? We find arguing fun to do and entertaining to watch. We also like to find patterns in things, which requires labelling, categorisation, clear distinctions… and often reductionism.
The embryonic findings of my research seem to support Zeldin and Gadamer’s view that we have more common ground; more scope for finding new solidarities; than we might have assumed. That doesn’t surprise me, because I’m a happy, positive soul (well, cheerfully pessimistic) and that’s what I wanted to find! I am also finding evidence that we might all be more self-interested than we think we are; a commonality that possibly gets in the way of us acting on whatever solidarities we build.
Unlike Cinderella’s glass slipper – which either fits or it doesn’t – the compatibility of interpretations appears to be subjective. Pluralism – so it seems to me – is about seeing the compatibility of different interpretations (‘Compatibilism’ specifically refers to the standpoint that free will and determinism are not mutually exclusive). Pluralism is, of course, distinct from relativism, which lends validity to all points of view. Compatibility is not the same thing as validity. I am not a relativist. I may be a pluralist. Hence my view on incompatibility and supercomplexity.
Let’s get back to strangeness, because what Kreber says on this resonates strongly with something I read a few days ago at the very start of David’s book – A Hermeneutics of Religious Education – on the Heideggerian perspective that interpretation invokes a play or tension between a text’s strangeness, and its familiarity (p2). Thinking on this, it struck me that this tension is surely present when we are learning anything. We have to create and engage with strangeness, otherwise there will be nothing to learn.
Barnett argues that the anxiety that is felt when our existing conceptions are called into question is ‘a condition of what it means to be a student’ (Kreber 2014, p93). I’m not sure that’s the kind of thing that makes me feel anxious. I think I quite like having my mind bent around a bit. That probably explains why I like psychedelics so much.
It’s often said that anxiety can get in the way of learning. Procrastination is often said to have a basis in anxiety. I have found that taking a deep breath, holding it and letting it out slowly is a great way to finish that paragraph rather than making another cup of tea. But Barnett and Kreber are talking about more than breathing exercises; they feel that the appropriate response to strangeness is for students to be open to one’s own complex possibilities. This is what they mean by striving for authenticity.
The use of the word ‘authenticity’ is intriguing to me as it suggests being or becoming what one really is; i.e. a single, determined outcome, rather than a range of possibilities. I’ll return here to what my conversation partner said about students discovering other possible ways of being, and the personal example they gave that suggested a critical stripping away of assumptions and expectations that revealed their true self. Is becoming aware of what might be (and what you might be) the same thing as coming to know what is (or becoming who you really are)? This is what Barnett and Kreber – and my conversation partner – seem to be saying, or at least that the relationship is a reciprocal one.
N.B. when I told Richard I was reading about coping with strangeness by creating it, he told me that when he was a little boy he would pretend to be a monster, in order to scare the monsters away. I’m not sure that’s relevant to the debate, I just thought it was cute (and ingenious).
Education requires being open to change – which as David points out in his book is a necessary attitude for engaging in dialogue. There is absolutely no point in entering into a dialogue unless one is open to having one’s mind changed. If we are absolutely sure that we are right, and our aim is to change the other person’s mind, we demand they take a different, more flexible attitude to us; we enforce a double standard (this is a key point in Stone, Patten & Heen’s 1999 book Difficult Conversations). Openness to change, and to the revealing of additional complexity, is what Kreber means by contributing to the strangeness. She returns again to the metaphor of authorship (‘of one’s own life’, which I find a little problematic given my recent reading on free will and determinism), pointing out that where there is no authority to rest on, no confirmation to seek, we have to offer our own ideas. This goes beyond critical thinking; it requires us to invest in and commit to our own choices.
I had an idea today for something to do in the lead-up to the election. I thought I would pop along to the local canvassing meetups for all the main political parties. They couldn’t possibly refuse, could they? Not if I was just hanging around and listening in with an open mind? They’d probably find it very strange, and they’d be right – it would be very strange, in exactly the way that Kreber is talking about; challenging and developing openness to experience, moral commitment and responsible engagement.