Having previously graduated from Canadian universities, to me the following sentiment seemed right on the mark, “We [in Britain] really preach intellectual monogamy more and more in this day and age. That’s by necessity, but we’re overdoing it.” Thus spake Dr. Carl Djerassi, chemist, author, playwright, in Intelligent Life magazine. At North American universities, by and large, undergraduate programmes seek to provide a liberal education, where subjects from both arts and sciences are required of everyone. One does specialize, but not so much that a chemist, for example, could entirely avoid the humanities, or that a historian could complete her studies without some experience of the pure and applied sciences.
In contrast, specialization seems to be the order of the day at Oxford, and indeed throughout Britain, where it is possible to take nothing but maths or sciences, or humanities or social sciences, from as early as age 15. During undergraduate orientation, the international students were told that Oxford expects us to become “professionals” in our chosen field: to grasp the current state of learning, deploy it to answer topical questions, and identify the areas where more research is needed. Undoubtedly these are worthy and challenging ends, but what of the relation between one’s subject and all of the others? Surely that is also important.
Or is it? In talking to students around Oxford, a common theme that emerges on this question is paternalism, with the case for breadth amounting to little more than vague assertions that “your life will just be better if you’ve read Shakespeare and Plato”. (Or, less frequently, “Your life will just be better if you understand organic chemistry”.) Indeed, the diversity of student interest here makes it difficult to get beyond such vague assertions: how can we specify a few subjects or authors that are universally relevant? Moreover, practical considerations seem overwhelmingly to favour specialised study: it is expensive to study at Oxford (or any undergraduate university), and specialists are more readily employable than generalists; the sea of human knowledge is so vast that just coming to grips with what’s been done takes years; and if the goal of university education is to deploy one’s mind in serious, rigorous study, surely in-depth reading is superior to so many “Introduction to…” courses, the sort of intellectual tourism that North American universities audaciously brand as “liberal education”.
People also seem to think that the case against specialization falls hardest on scientists. This is partly the result of caricature: people envision scientists discovering new worlds within worlds with every increase in magnification of the microscope. (Perhaps it really is ‘turtles all the way down’.) A more realistic claim might be that scientists require a broader base of knowledge because the fruits of their specialization will have the greatest impact on human society. Think of the Manhattan Project, which had devastating consequences, or take your pick of medical miracles, the consequences of which are often heroic. Or, perhaps the real problem is that the consequences of scientific endeavour are inherently uncertain, as last term’s Oxford Today magazine readily illustrates: the cover story investigates ongoing research into “human enhancement”, with one Oxford scientist speculating that his children “will live beyond the age of 120”.
While these examples are compelling, they are also, of course, incomplete. We should not forget that the Manhattan Project was carried out by scientists but directed by politicians, most of whom were not scientifically trained. Virtually all medical research is sponsored by private or government initiative that is directed by professionals or bureaucrats. Now that you know about human enhancement research at Oxford, you are at least partially complicit in whatever its consequences.
When Chancellor Patten was installed in 2003, he observed, quite rightly, that “it is probably the case that our lives in the future will be even more dependent on what emerges-taught and researched-from our universities”. All too true, and entirely at odds with the notion that Oxford (or any other university) should endeavour to produce “professional” undergraduates, little masters of their particular disciplines. Such a project bespeaks a vision that is both parochial and unambitious; even reckless,
if we concur in the Chancellor’s expectation. The case for specialized undergraduate study ultimately fails because the immediate concerns of personal interest or circumstance pale in comparison to the serious consequences that some will be instrumental in producing, and that all of us will in some way enable, condone, and endure. How easily we forget the caution of John Henry Newman, son of Trinity College and Fellow of Oriel College, who, in his famous lectures on The Idea of a University, observed that “Men, whose minds are possessed with some one object, take exaggerated views of its importance, are feverish in the pursuit of it, make it the measure of things which are utterly foreign to it, and are startled and despond if it happens to fail them.” While a system of residential colleges does much to discourage such feelings, and joint schools can do this even more directly, the basic programme here remains fundamentally directed towards specialized study. What Oxford, and indeed all undergraduate universities need is an academic programme constructed around serious cross-disciplinary study. Only this will ensure the sense of proportion, of wonder, that is necessary for us to bear the Chancellor’s burden.
