Zen and the Art of the University
I confess: My age is beginning to show. I'm a product
of the generation that produced a string of classic cult
novels, from On the Road to One Flew Over the
Cuckoo's Nest. Over the summer, in a futile attempt to
regain my youth, I decided to again read one of those
classics — Robert Pirsig's Zen and the Art of
Motorcycle Maintenance.
Pirsig's book takes the reader on a former professor's
motorcycle journey with his 10-year-old son from Wisconsin
to California, while creating a metaphorical link between
schools of philosophy and the father's approach to
maintaining his motorcycle. The journey is actually a
search for truth that takes the reader from Aristotle and
Plato to Zen Buddhism. (Okay, perhaps this simplistic
explanation is a bit opaque, but it's the best I can do
other than recommending that you read the book.)
What struck me upon rereading the book, however, was a
section in which the protagonist raises the question about
what really defines a university. Allow me to selectively
quote a few passages:
"The real university is not a material object. It is
not a group of buildings that can be defended by police....
[The real university] has no specific location. It owns no
property, pays no salaries and receives no material dues.
The real university is a state of mind. It is that great
heritage of rational thought that has been brought down to
us through the centuries and which does not exist at any
specific location. It's a state of mind, which is
regenerated throughout the centuries by a body of people
who traditionally carry the title of professor, but even
that title is not part of the real university. The real
university is nothing less than the continuing body of
reason itself.
"In addition to this state of mind, 'reason,' there's
a legal entity which is unfortunately called by the same
name but which is quite another thing. This is a nonprofit
corporation, a branch of the state with a specific address.
It owns property, is capable of paying salaries, of
receiving money... .
"But this second university, the legal corporation,
cannot teach, does not generate new knowledge or evaluate
ideas. It is not the real university at all. It is just a
church building, the setting, the location, at which
conditions have been made favorable for the real church to
exist.
"Confusion continually occurs in people who fail to
see this difference ... and think that control of the
church buildings implies control of the church.... They see
the second university but fail to see the first."
So much of my time — so much of all of our time
— is focused upon the second university that we can
fail to recognize our true mission is to preserve and
nurture the first. Our allegiance should be to the real
university — to the discovery of knowledge and the
transmission of ideas.
The all-encompassing dimension of this modern dilemma
was emphasized in another book I read during the summer:
Universities in the Marketplace, by Derek Bok, the
former president of Harvard. Bok explores the various ways
in which universities have become crass commercial
enterprises (my words, not his) — potentially
enhancing the economic fortunes of the second university
while endangering the very essence of the first. From the
support of athletic programs by sports apparel companies to
technology transfer arrangements dictated by giant
industrial concerns, Bok considers the dangers inherent in
moving too far toward the commercial business model.
We at Hopkins take seriously the benefits of forming
partnerships between universities and private industry, and
part of our mission is to contribute to society —
through scientific inventions, policy studies and
professional training — in ways that go beyond the
traditional goals of fundamental discovery and a liberal
arts education. And yet Bok has a point.
Consider, for instance, the more subtly problematic
challenge posed by the relationship between the real
university and its students, much like that between a
church and its parishioners. Organized religion exists to
serve God and promote spirituality, not to directly advance
the interest of its members, who may be more inclined to
want to hear a reassuring sermon every week or have a
chance to socialize at the Sabbath potluck supper. In a
number of cases, the aims of the two can come into
conflict. Likewise, the real university exists to discover
and promote the transfer of new knowledge, while students
come to the university with additional expectations —
getting prepared for a job or career, socializing,
participating in athletics or music or drama or community
service, etc. Increasingly, I fear, the aims of the two are
in conflict.
In the end, I believe society will be best served if
we recognize that this split exists between the essence of
the university — the discovery and transfer of
knowledge — and the bricks, mortar and
infrastructure. The latter may be necessary, but they are
not sufficient to assure the success or survival of the
university.
The spirit of discovery permeates everything we
endeavor to do at Hopkins. Although we are not immune to
the various market forces pushing and pulling us, I think
we have, thus far, been successful at steering an
appropriate course between them. Even after so many years,
I am still excited to be at a real university, to be part
of this work. My hope, as we begin a new academic year, is
that all of our community shares the same enthusiasm and
excitement.
William R. Brody is president
of The Johns Hopkins University.
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