I have mixed but mostly negative feelings about Mark Bauerlein’s recent piece in the Chronicle of Higher Education about literary research. Reporting on a study* he did for the Center for College Affordability and Productivity, Bauerlein argues that (most) literary research and publishing is not worth the investment of time and money that goes into it. His major evidence in support of this argument is that academic books and articles aren’t cited very much. Interestingly, he doesn’t argue that this is because they aren’t any good, that they aren’t worth doing because they contribute nothing to knowledge or understanding, or because they are opaque to the lay reader (popular forms of the attack on academic criticism, both of which are to be found in the long comments thread on his post) . In fact, he opens with the example of an article that is “learned, wide-ranging, and conversant with scholarship on the poet and theoretical currents in literary studies. The argument is dense, the analysis acute, on its face a worthy illustration of academic study deserving broad notice and integration into subsequent research in the field.” What he finds, however, after diligently entering the article’s title into Google Scholar, is only “a handful of sentences of commentary on the original article by other scholars in the 10 years after its publication.” There’s a dramatic imbalance, as he sees it, between the input (“100-plus hours of hard work by a skilled academic, plus the money the university paid the professor to conduct the research”) and the impact (” we can be sure of only a few scholars who incorporated it into their work”).
There’s plenty to be said about Bauerlein’s methodology, and some of the comments on the piece are sharp about the reliability of citations indexes in general and Google Scholar in particular, as well as about his very reductive notion of impact, which doesn’t consider the impact of scholarship that is read but not formally cited, read as teaching preparation, and so on. That we can’t count something doesn’t make it irrelevant, and all practising scholars know from their own first-hand experience, I’m sure, that they read and are influenced in their thinking by a great deal of material that never makes it into their footnotes or bibliographies.
But suppose we grant Bauerlein a modified version of his quantitative point: suppose it’s true that much specialized research does not change the conversation the way its authors probably hope it will. In fact, my own experience to some extent supports this–not only of watching the fate of my own publications, but of burrowing through masses of work by other scholars that really does, as Bauerlein says, “overwhelm the capacity of individuals to absorb the annual output.” What puzzles and disturbs me is what Bauerlein believes follows from this ‘finding,’ which is that we ought to stop doing (or at least funding) literary scholarship (he doesn’t actually say this in so many words, and at some points seems to be making the more temperate suggestion that we simply scale back expectations and output). Along the way to this modest proposal he also makes some dubious further claims–or at least claims that would require a great deal more nuance and specificity to be satisfactory.
Further to his point about the overwhelming mountain of publications, for instance, he proposes that we have “reached a saturation point, the cascade of research having exhausted most of the subfields.” But his examples are Melville and George Eliot, two of the most emphatically canonical authors imaginable. Yes, it’s a near impossibility to read “all of the 80 items of scholarship that are published on George Eliot each year”: I can’t do it–I wouldn’t want to do it. But the realities of specialization are also such that I don’t need to do it: there isn’t one subfield of George Eliot scholarship anymore but a multiplicity of potential angles on George Eliot, and the researcher’s task is to navigate among the available material to find what’s relevant. Yes, that’s difficult, even frustrating at times, but it’s hard to see how a continuing “cascade of research” is a sign of exhaustion: surely it’s a sign that people are still finding questions to ask, and doing their best to answer them? In these cases it may be true that the results will matter only to ” a microscopic audience of interested readers,” but that’s what happens in all highly specialized fields, not just in the humanities. The objection, then, can only be that for some reason literary subjects are not suited to specialization, which seems a suspect argument, one that harks back to a time when literary scholars were comfortably certain they knew what needed to be known and said about the books that really mattered, and those books and that knowledge could be neatly summed up and pronounced upon.
Having said this much, I should acknowledge what readers of this blog (certainly, any who have read it from its early days!) already know about me, which is that I have often complained about the pressure of specialization and the related trend towards metacriticism. I started blogging in part because of my own dissatisfaction with the norms of academic literary criticism. My early complaints about that got me in hot water with a commenter who charged me with “offering nourishment” to those who want “to eliminate literary studies from university curricula altogether.” Though I know more now than I did then about these kinds of criticisms of and attacks on the academic humanities, my view continues to be that what we need is not to end, but to diversify the kinds of research and writing that institutions recognize and support as valuable uses of academic expertise. There needs to be room for ‘knowledge dissemination’ that serves non-specialist purposes and audiences, for instance. Some researchers have less inclination and talent for microspecialization, but excel at synthesis and exposition–I think that is actually where my own strengths lie. But ask any academic whether writing a textbook or a popularization (or a series of reviews and essays in a non-academic, non-peer-reviewed journal) “counts” the same way that 5001st study of Melville will, when it comes time for hiring, tenure, or promotion, or just for earning the respect and support of your institution and administration…
To return to Bauerlein’s argument, the 5001st article on Melville may yet have its value to the small group of Melville specialists, provided it is, like the article he mentions in his opening, a high quality piece of professional scholarship. But it’s true that it can’t maximize its impact if it is not widely read, and the burden of reading 5000 other studies may be too much for most scholars. I think Bauerlein is right to suggest that quantitative measures for tenure and promotion are detrimental to individual scholars as well as to the profession as a whole. (I interviewed for one position where I was told I would need two books or six articles for tenure. That’s absurd, not least because the fetishization of books creates what I described in an earlier post as “the corrupting pressure to inflate, not only our prose and our manuscripts, but our claims.”) The MLA has been making the argument for decentering the monograph for years now, but as Bauerlein points out, “nobody wants to take the first step in reducing the demand.” Between the crisis in academic publishing and the changing demands and expectations of scholars themselves, perhaps eventually the ‘publish or perish’ model will be reformed.
But let’s consider, again, the article Bauerlein opens with. The problem Bauerlein identifies is not that the author’s time (and the university’s resources) were wasted because the article never needed to be written the first place, but because the article had little measurable impact–it didn’t make a conspicuous difference to the field. Again, Bauerlein’s claims are undermined by their lack of specificity: depending on how specialized the essay’s argument is, perhaps nobody should expect it to transform the overall discussion about that particular canonical poet. The 10-year time frame also does not allow for the glacially slow pace of academic publishing. But let’s, again, grant him a modified version of his premise, this time that the impact of the piece really was inappropriately (or unfortunately) light. Why isn’t that a reason, not to stop producing learned, wide-ranging, acute analysis, but to change the mechanisms for circulating it? What’s wrong with the processes, the apparatus, of our scholarship, if good ideas are not circulating as widely as they should? How can we open up the research and publishing process so that scholars engage each other in more direct, productive conversations? Why aren’t the scholars working in this area actually talking to each other–not face to face, but through Twitter, blogs, listservs, or other kinds of scholarly networks? Is it that there are too many of them, each of them individually overwhelmed by the difficulty of trying to keep up with the output of scholarship from others? Or is it something about their work habits–keeping their heads down, trying to beat the tenure clock, looking only so far and no further? Is the sheer pressure to publish a lot a disincentive to more exhaustive research? What are the logistical impediments, in other words, to improving the circulation of ideas? Also, how can we change the way we work so that the value Bauerlein himself claims to recognize in an essay such as that one can be perceived by readers outside the academy as well? Why is the best response to a (perceived) oversupply of exemplary scholarship to denigrate or even halt the scholarship, rather than to champion it and ask that we and our institutions work to solve the problem of its reception and distribution?
From Bauerlein’s perspective, the answer would appear to be that he thinks literary research has already run its course–that there’s really nothing left of any significance for scholars to find out, at least not on behalf of the rest of us. But here his choice of George Eliot and Melville is misleading, if not disingenuous. I’m prepared to concede that the latest articles on George Eliot are pretty specialized. Indeed, I have nearly lost interest in reading them myself, and I don’t want to be compelled to contribute to them myself. Curiosity-driven research can hardly, in consistency, be made compulsory. But I don’t think that means they have no value (why should my interests and preferences be the arbiter?), and I wouldn’t want to propose (as Bauerlein certainly implies) that “saturation” means “completion”–what would it mean to be finished studying something? how could we ever be sure we have found out everything there is to know? “We can no longer pretend … that studies of Emily Dickinson are as needed today,” Bauerlein proclaims, but how can he know this? There’s some irony in his relying on simple quantity of research to decide there’s nothing of interest or value left to be said. Still, perhaps in these cases scholars are working mostly for each other. Again, this happens in all fields once you reach a certain level of specialization.
Suppose we consider if every subfield is as densely populated as those he cites, however. I’ve been looking up Winifred Holtby: there’s very little scholarship about her novels, compared to the vast output on her Bloomsbury contemporaries. That absence of material is already provocative, to my mind: what has given one literary movement so much more critical value? In learning more about Holtby and Brittain, I feel that I am also learning (again) about the ways our scholarship is shaped by expectations and priorities that are not intrinsic to the literature but may, in fact, interfere with our understanding of its forms and ideas. Much was made at one time about the “end of history”: does Bauerlein believe we have reached the end of literary history? Surely not. The landscape of literary studies is in constant flux, not just in the theoretical apparatus readers bring to primary texts, but in our selection of primary texts to look at in the first place. Imagine if we had concluded, as a profession, that Leavis’s The Great Tradition was the last word on the British novel, or that the list of Oxford World’s Classics as of, say, 1970, was definitive. In my own undergraduate course on the Victorian novel, in 1988, the term “sensation fiction” never came up–and neither did Elizabeth Gaskell. In our discussion of Jane Eyre, at no point did we consider whether British imperialism was a significant context. In my own academic lifetime and my own specialized field, that is, there have been enormous changes in just a couple of decades. It’s easy to take the horizons of our own interests and knowledge as actual limits on what is worth asking or knowing, but surely the last 100 years of literary studies have shown us just how limiting and even dangerous that assumption can be. What a depressingly anti-intellectual proposition, that we have nothing more to learn or say, or that even if we do, it’s not worth finding it out. It’s precisely because we can’t foresee the significance of research that we need to preserve a space to do it open-mindedly, in a spirit of sheer intellectual curiosity. Up close, in the moment, it may be difficult to discern how or where the multitude of individual projects is moving us–but yet, look back and see what a different place we are in now. Who, in 1900, or 1950, or even 1980, could have told us what would turn out to make the most difference?
Ah, but you see, all that research is expensive. As Bauerlein says, “we cannot devote our energies to projects of little consequence”–but note the presumed correlation between measurable impact and “consequence.” And, again, “impact” is a complex issue, one hardly amenable to simple metrics. What will those “undergraduate reading groups” Bauerlein wants us to lead (in lieu of going to conferences or archives) be talking about in 10 or 20 years, if specialized research grinds to a halt? Exactly the same things we would bring to them today, I suppose–but why would we want time to stand still in that way? Or, how will he decide who will carry on the research while the rest of us focus on mentoring undergraduates (not, presumably, to be scholars) and “pushing foreign languages in general-education requirements”? (How that last is the particular responsibility of English professors, I’m not clear.) Bauerlein argues,
If a professor who makes $75,000 a year spends five years on a book on Charles Dickens (which sold 43 copies to individuals and 250 copies to libraries, the library copies averaging only two checkouts in the six years after its publication), the university paid $125,000 for its production. Certainly that money could have gone toward a more effective appreciation of that professor’s expertise and talent.
But that professor’s “expertise” is surely in part defined (and expanded) precisely by that long-term effort to know more about Dickens. Why is it a “more effective appreciation” of that professor to discourage (and perhaps even to prevent, by withholding time and resources) the research and publication of the book? (How can you judge the importance of the book’s ideas from the number of times it has been checked out, anyway? Haven’t you ever just sat in the stacks and read stuff?)
Bauerlein is right to challenge the reigning paradigm that values quantity over quality and specialization over synthesis and accessibility. But throughout the piece, there’s an uneasy slippage between making the case for a more rational, deliberative research model and a wholesale dismissal of the entire enterprise. At one point he acknowledges that “research is an intellectual good,” but then he shrugs it off as “ineffectual toil.” He concedes that those who object to his position are not wrong “on principle”–but then rules them out of order on grounds of pragmatism. He agrees that research “makes better teachers and colleagues” but then he characterizes it as the pursuit of an identity that is alluring because it “flatter[s] people that they have cutting-edge brilliance”–as if literary research is no more than egotistical posturing. (Perhaps he has been reading Eugenides?) He concludes by looking forward to the waning of “the research years of literary study.” As many of the comments on his piece show, this kind of thing is music to the ears of those who see no value at all in what we do–his gestures towards moderation and reform are eclipsed by his larger narrative of excess and waste.
That Bauerlein’s column is clearly having a large impact (as measured by external links–including both Arts and Letters Daily and the Book Bench–as well as by the number of comments it has garnered) seems to me pretty good evidence that we need better ways to measure what a piece of writing is really worth.
*I haven’t read the entire study; my response is just to the presentation of its main ideas in the Chronicle article.
Let’s say that you believed that your scholarship had a political impact. You might then see studies of Bauerlein’s type, along with the proposals in various state legislatures to reduce the amount of research time available to faculty by increasing the amount they teach, as a direct attempt to limit this political impact. This idea may sound grandiose and indeed somewhat ridiculous for many varieties of scholarship unless you place this article in the context of the long-simmering culture wars.
Well I think you are quite right to ask why we don’t focus more on distribution. Given that we have so much extraordinary communication technology, it seems a dreadful shame that we don’t have more global research groups, sharing their information and debate. In the UK, the reduction in publication is happening already, simply because academic publishers are getting very, very picky as to what they will accept. This is a particular problem in modern languages (my field) although the English departments are still doing okay. But trying to get a scholarly book out there today is extremely difficult. I once needled the editor of CUP over lunch trying to get him to say what they WOULD publish. In the end he said, reluctantly, well, maybe the next really big book on Sartre or Proust. And I said, but surely you’d argue then that the world didn’t need another book on Sartre or Proust. And he said, true. So basically, one of the main academic publishers in the country, subsidized by the university so that it doesn’t have to be bound by commercial dictates, only puts out a couple of modern language titles a year. My own research towards the end of my time as a lecturer was always involved with the most recent publications. I didn’t want to wade through oceans of scholarly work on a writer; I liked starting from a blank slate, and was in any case more interested by what was coming out and making waves in the present day. I was interested in spotting trends as they were happening – not something Bauerlein considers at all, I suppose.
I certainly see these arguments in that context, though at the same time, I have long found it frustrating that it is so hard to ask questions like Bauerlein’s (ignoring, for now, the way he directs his response) without being interpreted as being conservative or retrograde. It’s healthy (as four years ago I argued to my angry commenter) to question and rethink the organizing assumptions of our disciplinary practice, especially when it seems clear to many of us that they have detrimental effects.
One thing I’ve noticed, as I research graduate schools, is that English departments don’t seem to encourage, or at least professors don’t seem to encourage, personal websites where work is freely available. Now, I know there are a number of reasons why someone can’t put work online, but when compared to other fields it’s awfully disappointing (there are exceptions, of course, but if you compare the number of papers available via faculty sites for philosophy programs–to speak anecdotally of the only other field I can claim to know something about–it’s almost absurdly easy to get access to the work of young scholars even without access to a jstor account). One other tendency I might note is that the English profession also seems to lack a strong online presence, at least in the same way that, again, philosophy and the sciences are available. I don’t really know why this is, although I have some suspicions–the lack of, for better and worse, an equivalent to the Leiter report–but it does seem a shame how few academics in the field have a serious, sustained internet presence. Of course, I could be looking in the wrong places.
Those are interesting observations, Mike. I think you are right about there not being a site quite as pivotal to professional or disciplinary discussion in English as the Leiter Report is in philosophy. That probably reflects, at least in part, the much more diffuse nature of English as a discipline (my husband is a philosopher, as it happens, so I think I know enough to make this comparison!). At one point The Valve might have been something like that (though it was never all English profs, it did have a strongly literary focus), though I’m not sure it had the same high profile or common currency, and now it has largely subsided as a place for group discussion and debate. If you followed up specific areas of specialization rather than looking for the online presence for “English” in general, you’d do better. I wonder if other readers have other ideas: is there any place online where English types gather?
But attitudes do make a difference too, and I wonder if English has just been slow to adapt. My own experience, which is of course highly partial and anecdotal, is that there is not much interest in the internet among the ‘mass’ of English professors. My own colleagues still mostly talk about “blogs” as if they are some kind of strange excrescences, and you should see how squirmy the concept of Twitter makes them. The general sense of disengagement from the internet they communicate (there are exceptions, of course! including anyone who happens by and reads this comment!) may explain the lack of effort to put things up online, though copyright reasons also inhibit us (I’m pretty sure I’m not allowed to post full-text versions of my own articles, though to be honest I haven’t double-checked that assumption). Again, I wonder what other readers think–have you noticed that English departments seem behind others in terms of creating an online presence?
Just to give a bit of support for my claim–unscientific support, anyway–just compare the way faculty work is presented in different departments from the same university (in this case Chicago). To give two examples, look at the relative profiles of Lauren Berlant (English) and Jocely Benoist (Philosophy), chosen because alphabetical order seemed least suspicious:
Both profiles give a good idea of the work the professor is doing and lists their publications, but but seven of Benoist’s articles have a link to a pdf that anyone can read while only one of Berlant’s does (and it doesn’t work, but accidents do happen). This is about the same for the rest of the departments, and many others whose websites I’ve visited (there are, of course, exceptions– Rutgers, for example–but they don’t seem to be the norm). I still don’t know why this is, but I suspect it is that there is less of a push to have an online presence.
And I, too, lament the collapse of the Valve. And the insularity of Arcade.
First, a quick apology to litlove and Mike for the delay in their comments appearing–for some reason, you were flagged as spam! Good thing I still scan the folder before emptying it, as I would have hated to lose these contributions.
litlove, what an interesting Catch-22 that is. And how can even CUP be sure what “the next big book” will be? There does seem to be a trend towards ‘blockbuster’ publishing with academic authors: do you think Stephen Greenblatt would ever have trouble getting a book out? And what else explains Marjorie Garber getting away with The Use and Abuse of Literature? Even people who think Greenblatt’s latest book is dubiously scholarly or whatever will likely look at it, and libraries will buy it, and so on, because it’s Greenblatt.
Mike: Ah, yes, Arcade. It’s not where I hang out online, that’s for sure. We have been pushed and pushing for a better online presence in our own department for a decade or more now. Gradually, very gradually, it is coming to be–some larger fraction, that is, do have web sites at least, but I realize that is not really what you mean by “online presence,” or at least it is only a gesture. A number of academic bloggers have written about academics’ fear of going public, some of which comes from a culture in which a ‘hermeneutics of suspicion’ is (or was, for many years) the norm, some of which comes, I think, just from the psychological make-up of academics, including a high rate of ‘imposter syndrome’ and a deep-rooted performance anxiety. I have one colleague (hi!) who reads my blog pretty regularly but has said she “wouldn’t dare” comment on it. Is it possible that there’s something different in the culture of philosophy? I do think, from my own observations, that there is a greater pool of common knowledge–more sense of what the big problems are, more common methodology, etc.–so perhaps overall it’s just a more transparent field? Certainly the philosophers I know are accustomed to a different kind of public scrutiny of their work: for instance, the practice of distributing papers in advance and having assigned commentators on them at conferences. Just speculating…
I’m so glad you found my comment! I’ve had folks disappearing into the spam queue lately, much to my chagrin. And YES I do think that the problem is all about easy popularity. I was discussing just this issue with my son earlier, who complains bitterly about the lack of originality in movies. He has a big grudge against the new Sherlock Holmes films because they are nothing to do with the spirit of the original. He feels that the label Sherlock Holmes is simply stuck on a script because he is famous already and that will perk the interest of cinemagoers. Similarly with a Greenblatt or a Garber; for a while they get to write whatever they like because they can coast on their names. Not that that will last forever if they publish a stream of turkeys, mind you! But you see what I mean.