In 1852, John Henry Newman, in one of his discourses on “The Idea of a University”, said “a University is, according to the usual designation, an Alma Mater, knowing her children one by one, not a foundry, or a mint, or a treadmill”. Thirty years later, Thomas Henry Huxley said “The medieval university looked backwards; it professed to be a storehouse of old knowledge…The modern university looks forward, and is a factory of new knowledge.”
I believe Newman’s criteria to be as valid today as they were when he voiced them. That they no longer appear to be so is not because the reason for a university’s existence has changed; it is because our society has found it expedient to pervert its purpose to a degree which has come close to destroying its true function. The ideal of a bounteous mother, for which Newman fought with such luminous hope and fervour, has been forgotten in the shift from a place of enlightenment toward a corporate enterprise.
Huxley’s answer to the question was, and still is, equally correct. The medieval university looked unswervingly toward the past. Its arrogance, although almost entirely unproductive, had something of the same hypnotic and unassailable quality as a noble ruin. Its arrogant certainty that there was no need to clutter up the academic storehouse by looking into the future, or even the present, for further knowledge was both unprofitable and unpardonable. But when Huxley urged universities to look forward he meant away into the far distance, to the horizon and beyond; not a few months ahead to the next disclosure of government under-funding, or to the time when a research grant expires. His currency was knowledge, not cash-in-hand. The tunnel-visioned universities of today have certainly fulfilled, nominally, one of Huxley’s ideals. They have become factories; but not, unhappily, in the sense that he hoped for. In doing so, they have also realized Newman’s worst fears by becoming foundries, mints and treadmills for both their students and their faculty.
I believe universities exist for the pursuit of knowledge and understanding; nothing more and certainly nothing less. Every human activity that takes place in a university, from the most erudite and esoteric research to the emptying of dustbins, should be performed with the pursuit of knowledge and understanding as its ultimate aim. Six words may seem sparse for a comprehensive statement about an area of endeavour I believe to be of critical importance to my species. I maintain, however, that they encompass everything for which universities exist.
Since all three words are fickle beasts I should, perhaps, explain exactly what I mean by “pursuit”, “knowledge” and “understanding”.
Knowledge, a chameleon among words, is nevertheless one of my favorites. This may be why I become incensed when it is used as a synonym for “information” or “memorization of facts and figures”; an error that occurs often in reference to the processes of teaching and learning. Knowledge belongs uniquely to the person who possesses it. We can give each other information, facts, figures, references and other forms of sensory inflow that do not, necessarily, demand thought on the part of the recipient. If we are very skilled and articulate, we may even be able to give each other concepts, which are one step up from facts but still transferable without obligatory cerebration. Knowledge, however, can be neither shared nor given, because it is the singular product of a unique mind. If we allow them to, our minds can start working on a hotchpotch of received data and transform it into knowledge, which is then ours alone. That our minds are capable of performing this magic is a priceless gift which must be taken advantage of if our existence is to have meaning.
A related error is the all too common confusion of understanding with memorization. The memorization of information is essentially ephemeral and of little value except as a means of passing conventional examinations. Understanding, like knowledge, involves the mind of the individual; true understanding, therefore, is also unique to that individual. It is worth recalling that Goethe said “What a man doesn’t understand, he doesn’t have.”
Without the human mind there can be no knowledge and no understanding. A computer, however voraciously it receives, processes and transmits factual information, cannot yet—nor will it ever, in my view—know or understand.
The proper function of a university is to recognize and promote the unique value of the human mind by providing a sanctuary in which these priceless processes are recognized, valued and encouraged. This sounds like a hollow echo of Newman’s “knowing her children, one by one” and brings me to what I mean when I use the word pursuit.
I can see no reason to doubt that the human animal is born with an inquisitive mind, by which I mean a mind that thirsts for knowledge and understanding. Any parent who has lovingly observed the behaviour of a baby, however young, must know that this is so. In normal circumstances, a baby is not forced to learn nor told what must be learned nor is the baby’s retention of what has been learned tested in a formal, intensely competitive and essentially punitive manner. That comes later, when the mind of the child becomes imprisoned by formal education.
Why, then, does a baby not only learn but do so at a phenomenal speed? I believe the answer is because the human mind wants, and needs, to know and understand. Rather than struggling, under duress, to achieve these aims passively and unwillingly, the mind of a young child is free to pursue them without restraint. That is what I mean by “pursuit”; an activity engendered, eagerly, from within, rather than one imposed, oppressively, from without.
Why, then, does a baby not only learn but do so at a phenomenal speed? I believe the answer is because the human mind wants, and needs, to know and understand. Rather than struggling, under duress, to achieve these aims passively and unwillingly, the mind of a young child is free to pursue them without restraint. That is what I mean by “pursuit”; an activity engendered, eagerly, from within, rather than one imposed, oppressively, from without.
All too soon, however, the dread process of obligatory, didactic, punitive ingestion of information, which we call formal education, begins. The result is that an inquisitive mind is forcibly and inexorably converted into an acquisitive mind; acquisitive, that is, of unrelated facts, not of knowledge.
Let us consider the time-honoured procedures whereby this bending of minds is brought about.
Each mind is given an identifying number and set down, with many others; all facing, lets us say, due north. The actual number of minds so arranged is determined solely by economic expediency. Then an authority-figure mind, facing due south, delivers information and the north-facing minds diligently write it down or, if the master mind has already done so, copy it. The north-facing minds are not asked whether they want, or need, to receive this information. They are not told the relevance of it. Nor is it suggested to them that there may be any question of its veracity. Whether or not the information is either accurate or relevant to their present understanding or future knowledge is, in any case, of no importance because of the nature of the next stage in this educational charade.
Periodically, the minds are reassembled, in conditions of high stress, and required to regurgitate suitable boluses of the information they have struggled to memorize. The questions which trigger this regurgitation have been set by the authority-mind which originally fed them the information. Hence, the only necessity for them to be regarded as good little minds is that their regurgitated information be identical with that which was fed to them originally. It does not have to be correct, up-to-date or of any obvious relevance. The ability of any one of the captive minds to play this “receive, record, memorize, regurgitate” game better than the others, determines its future, both in education and in life. None of the minds involved in these procedures are called upon to do that for which they are uniquely competent; namely, to think.
The proper function of a university is to recognize and promote the unique value of the human mind by providing a sanctuary in which these priceless processes are recognized, valued and encouraged.
It is commonly believed that a radical change will prevail in the methodology of learning on the other side of the ditch that separates secondary from post-secondary education. In that rich earth, it is assumed, the seeds of knowledge will at last be planted and cherished; then, unhindered and abundant, intellectual blossoming will occur.
This was not what I found to be the case when, in my mid-twenties, I finally entered university. The Groves of Academe proved, intellectually, to be part wilderness and part boot camp.
There were, however, small patches of true learning to be found in this intellectual tundra. These usually resulted from the heroic efforts of maverick academics, deeply distrusted by their colleagues, who realized that information only becomes knowledge when minds are allowed, perhaps even encouraged, to think instead of merely storing.
I vividly recall one person who offered a ray of hope that, having discovered this tunnel at the end of the light, I might yet find a light at the end of the tunnel. He was a professor of botany. I remember the first lecture of his which I, together with a gaggle of other earnest first-year students, attended. We all sat motionless, in the customary serried ranks with pens poised, heads bowed and minds closed, ready to record every word for future memorization and regurgitation.
After entering the lecture room and assessing the scene, this remarkable man sighed deeply and audibly. Then he said something shockingly unexpected. More than fifty years later, I still remember, almost word-for-word, what it was:
“Please put away your pens. There are no rules of attendance at my lectures; come if you want to, stay away if you don’t. My only stipulation is that you do not write down anything I say. I want to see your faces, not the tops of your heads. That is the only way in which I can tell whether you are thinking and understanding. Then it is possible that you may acquire some knowledge. It is not my intention to give you factual information—you don’t really need it, anyway, and you can find it in various textbooks if you feel you must have it. I propose to tell you some of my ideas about botany. I am obliged to set examination questions, and you to answer them. My questions will be designed to test your ability to think conceptually about botany, not your ability to remember unrelated facts about it. If at any time, you do not understand what I am saying, say so. If you will do that, we may all benefit!”
This was a man, fighting a big battle in a small army half a century ago, who unquestionably understood exactly what universities are for. Have things improved since then? Sadly, I fear they have not; but, so long as there are a few academics left with the courage and clear-sightedness of that stalwart botanist, all may not be entirely lost.
My opinion of what universities ought to be for is reflected in a little poem by Christopher Logue:
“Come to the edge”
“It’s too high”
“Come to the edge”
“We’ll fall”
“Come to the edge”
So they came
And we pushed them
And they flew
John Henry Newman, however, deserves to have the last word. “Knowledge”, he said, “is capable of being its own end”. And, of course, he was right. AM
David Inman, a Professor Emeritus of McMaster University, came from the United Kingdom to Canada in 1970. His prime reason for doing so was the innovative Problem-Based Learning approach to teaching and learning in the McMaster University Medical School.
