The life of the mind

I've been thinking a lot about literature and why those of us who work in it got into it in the first place. I've been meaning to write about literature for a while now, but I have had difficulty figuring out what to say. I think most of the difficulty has arisen from the fact that I don't actually teach literature. I keep teaching, but I have only been teaching composition lately, and there's a gap between composition and literature in the way that they are taught.

I heard a lot about the "life of the mind" at MLA and found myself contemplating its various uses. Sometimes the phrase is used facetiously, sometimes it is used in earnestness, but each time it is used, it identifies a particular way of understanding the world. It's a way that is in some ways disconnected from the world because it is focused on an abstract world of thought, and for those of us who teach and study literature, the intangible nature of reading and thinking about literature makes the disconnect from the world even more evident.

While literature may be a "mirror" of the world, it is also an escape from the world. I hold these two opposite beliefs about literature because I earnestly believe that literature is able to do both. Literature, even the most fantastical literatures like the ones I study, reflects the world in its comprehensibility. If it did not reflect the world - if it did not use the languages, ideas, values and images of the world - it would be incomprehensible. That's why even the most unreal writing, whether it's Joyce or Charles Stross, still needs to use the objects and language of the real world to tell its stories.

But literature is also an escape from the world, or if not an escape, a suspension of the lived reality of everyday life. Because regardless of how realistic the narrative, it isn't real life. The story of the book does not extend beyond its pages. Sure, a book may change the way you think about things and your attitude towards others (remember the study that said people who read fiction are better adjusted socially?) but in the end, the story ceases when you cease reading. The words are trapped within the pages, only indirectly affecting the world through the way that the affect the mind(s) of those who read them.

This is why the "life of the mind" fits so well with the "absentminded professor" stereotype. Because to engage in the life of the mind is to be engrossed in your own contemplation of that literature (or whatever else it is you study). Which means you cannot fully attend to what's outside of the mind (or the text) while doing so. (The relative difficulty in navigating hotel lobbies full of academics over the last several days at the MLA provided tangile evidence of this absent-mindedness)

This life of the mind is also invisible to observers. Because it does not involve bodily action, and because our thoughts aren't written on our bodies (probably a good thing in the long run), to those observing someone engaged in the life of the mind, it appears that person is actually *doing* nothing. Which strictly speaking is true - there is no "doing", just thinking. Of course this is why the stereotype of the absentminded professor is a negative, or at least comical one.

The relative invisibility of what we do often leads to frustration and misunderstanding as well. To those who do not engage in the "life of the mind" it can look a lot like, well, doing nothing. Particularly when one is thinking rather than reading or writing. But even in writing - the most obvious marker of output of the academic work life - the product can seem small for the amount of time that goes into it. This leads then to frustrations from academics whose families, friends, or even just the public, see their flexible schedules and relative lack of busyness as a sign that the task is somehow easy when it's not.

The "life of the mind" is also difficult to navigate for those of us who do have to regularly emerge from contemplation to attend to meals, school activities, necessary chores, caring for others, or just a myriad of other daily tasks that interrupt the thinking that characterizes the life of the mind. Sometimes it's really hard to switch gears from one to the other, and the sustained thought necessary to really engaged satisfyingly in the life of the mind can often seem a precious resource too often given away in the effort to keep the problems of the real world in check.

I'm not saying that having outside commitments and a life of the mind is impossible. In fact, having something other than contemplation in one's life would make one better at contemplating I would argue. It's the timing. When academics - usually women, and usually mothers - have others who rely upon them, the interruptions of the real world often come at inopportune times, just when we feel like we're getting somewhere with a particular idea. Of course it's certainly possible to write or read in small segments of time, but the solitude and uninterrupted quiet of a "room of one's own" can sometimes seem a luxury that far too often is not available to parents (or those caring for other dependents) in academia.

So in contemplating the life of the mind, I would add that the life of the mind can also seem luxurious. Having the time to think is a privilege that I am reminded of every time that I find a quiet time (and place) where I can engage in the "life of the mind" without fear of interruption. In that, I am lucky to be doing what I am doing, in being able to enter that abstract realm of thought in order to do my work. How privileged I am to be able to do so - now as a student for free, and hopefully one day as a professor, for pay.

When I consider all these things, the "life of the mind" seems neither facetious nor earnest but a privilege that I'm happy to be granted.