Yearning for learning

Writing in 1932, Bertrand Russell defined work as being of two forms: “first, altering the position of matter at or near the earth’s surface relatively to other such matter; second, telling other people to do so”. “The first kind”, he continued, “is unpleasant and ill paid; the second is pleasant and highly paid”. However vague a definition this may be, and despite its age, Russell’s words still describe very broadly the most part of work in the modern world – certainly, at least, that which is considered most important, the ubiquitous ‘paid-work’.

Omitted from this definition is another kind of work which is of almost equal prominence in society but of an altogether different complexion. So different, in fact, that it is quite surprising that they can even fall into the same box. This ‘work’ is neither ill paid nor highly paid and, though we are told to do it, our compliance benefits no one more than ourselves. It does not involve exploitation or forced labour; we are not alienated from the fruits of our travail; it is work where we are our own boss. What I am referring to is the kind of ‘work’ which most concerns us, the kind set by the University.

Work in this sense can simply be defined as the practice of learning; a means to an end where the end is knowledge. Or rather, the end should be knowledge. Unfortunately, the structure of society is such that this is rendered almost impossible. Whereas in an ideal world knowledge would be celebrated for what it is, sadly, in the apparently spherical but deceptively square world in which we live, knowledge, along with everything else, must always, always have a purpose. It must be for something. Anything else is unnecessary and superfluous. Essentially, if it won’t help you move matter relative to other such matter, or, if you’re lucky, help you tell other people to do so, then what’s the point?

This way of thinking has the unruly effect of corrupting the practice of learning. It implants within it ulterior motives. Most regrettably, the current government seems intent on reinforcing this state of affairs. As the fees for university increase, so too does the emphasis on what you do after university, rather than in it. Rather than being an institution with intrinsic value, university has become for many a mere preparatory school for the adult, working world. Consequently, a significant part of university is undermined.

The Government’s neglect of the arts provides further cause for concern. The arts are a perfect example of a human activity whose predominant value goes beyond mere utility and economic benefits; it does not fulfil any easily defined ‘purpose’. This, however, should in no way diminish its significance. On the contrary, it is an essential part of any nation’s culture and heritage. In spite of this, not only have funding for the arts been drastically slashed in the last two years – causing some university’s art and music departments to close completely, as at the University of East Anglia, for example – but the government’s new EBacc seems set to likewise marginalise art, music, drama and the such through its inflated emphasis on English, maths, science and history. The fact that when universities were originally conceived in north-western Europe the primary focus was on the arts and theology, rather than law and academia, is a good indication of where the original/first priorities of university lie.

The sad reality of the world is that work has embedded itself as what we are defined by; our profession is what we are. You can buy however an expensive a car as you like, wear the flashiest of suits, express yourself in any which way you please, but, finally, what people will judge you on is your profession.

This, however, is not a cry to raise the white flag, to surrender yourself to the future job that awaits you, it is merely a suggestion that university and paid-work be kept as separate as possible. Though it seems part of the human condition that we cannot help but look towards the future, studies at university should not be tarnished by oppressive expectations of what is to follow. All that the practice of learning at university should share with your work afterwards is that it is an activity which occupies your time.

When I leave university, I do not wish to move matter relatively to other matter, nor do I wish to tell others to do so. Quite where this will leave me, I am yet to find out, but long may this be the case.