I entered into debate last night with RW about the merits and pitfalls of academia and academics. He maintained that brain power was squandered in the ivory tower and that, while he (quite sensibly) wouldn’t necessarily want his literature prof who puts his pants on backwards to wield any political power, it’s high time that intellectuals (ie, esp. in the humanities) engage more with their world and write articles that people can actually read, dammit, with verbs closer to subjects. I mumbled something about engagement and coherence coming through on the level of teaching, about the difficulty and the necessity of developing new vocabularies that aren’t always immediately comprehensible. (Yes, I’ve developed a sympathy for Judith Butler’s writing--but only because it is understandable, just not easily so. But most things worth reading aren’t easily digestible. Also, no one complains when science articles aren’t easy to follow without a sound basis in, say, organic chemistry. How I rage). “I will call up an academic to comment on a story I’m writing,” RW laments, “and they will say the situation is too complicated for them to be of use. It’s their chance! To communicate!” It seems to me that that recognition of complexity is precisely the point of the university: resist the soundbyte! I love academics (in an abstract way, of course) because they often seem to be overwhelmed by the interconnectedness of everything, the immense possibilities, the many sides of truth: but they always bounce back and try to explain anyway. I also love them because they’re constantly questioning, like RW, the usefulness of this constant questioning and embracing of ambiguity. I have yet to attend a seminar that does not cast serious doubts on the moral efficacy, the political implications (if any) of English studies. People who make money, build buildings or cure cancer don’t often practice the same self-censure. Yes, a neurotic, stubborn, insecure bunch. It’s good to get off campus now and then.

I found my autumnal poem! Shakespeare, Sonnet 73:

That time of year thou mayst in me behold
When yello leaves, or none, or few, do hang
Upon those boughs which shake against the cold,
Bare ruined choirs, where late the sweet birds sang.
In me thou see’st the twilight of such day
As after sunset fadeth in the west;
Which by and by black night doth take away,
Death’s second self, that seals up all in rest.
In me thou see’st the glowing of such fire,
That on the ashes of his youth doth lie,
As the deathbed whereon it must expire,
Consumed with that which it was nourished by.
This though perceiv’s, which makes thy love more strong,
To love that well which thou must leave ere long.

From The Norton Anthology of Poetry. 4th Edition. Eds. Margaret Ferguson et al. New York: Norton, 1997.