Publish or Perish, Musings of an Anxious Integral Alumnus
Matriculation into Grad School has roused some emotions in me. Like,
it really got me twisted up. I am, beyond all things, so pumped to dive
into the world of research and academia. However, I’d be remiss to not
write about my lurking anxiety over that expression used so readily by
many who were or are still in the Academy – that is, “publish or
perish”. To add to the mix, mentors and friends constantly remind me
that success in Academia is NOT solely based on a meritocracy.
Hypothetically, I could write some of the dopest papers for coursework
assignment, maybe even write an awesome dissertation, teach some
classes, earn some fellowships, speak at a conference, and do it all at
an Ivy League institution. I could earn the respect and admiration of my
peers and colleagues while doing so. But, so I’m told, none of that
will secure me a position in Academia unless I publish some papers in a
reputable journal related to my field. Even if I do meet the right
people, publish enough papers in the right journals, get an interview
and then a job as a professor (adjunct, associate, or tenure-track), I
would still need to continue churning out publications until I receive
tenure. Just about all of the awesomeness that comes in the
total-package of Ryan VillegasTM means nothing in the academic market if
my CV is void of publications. There are thousands of other PhD holders
who have the same, if not better, qualifications as me. What’s more is
that many PhD holders will apply to new positions having already been
published in well respected journals. Some of them will have
successfully published whilst in their PhD, others will have written the
seminal text in their field. This is my competition.
My GSI (graduate student instructor) at Berkeley in the summer
casually told me and my classmates that he is writing his dissertation
while also writing another book on the side. He had been published for
the first time during the fourth year of his program. Intimidating? Yes.
Daunting? Yes. Debilitating? Not really but almost. Due to the obscure
and tenuous nature of the humanities in Academia, there will probably
only be a few professorial positions on the market for which I am
qualified to teach when I get my PhD. I’ll toss my name into the ring,
of course, but what are the chances that an institution is going to hire
me when/if I have no publications? More to the point, why do
publications matter so much? I am the product of a Great Books program,
which really just means that I was able to indulge in learning for the
sake of learning. My undergraduate tutors, professors and mentors
encouraged me to satiate any intellectual curiosity that came across my
mind, so long as I grounded my interests in logical arguments and
analysis of primary texts. I did what they said. I read a lot of books,
ones that I wanted to read simply because they were interesting and ones
that were mandated by the curriculum. The world of publishing seemed
like such a non-issue for me as a young, naive, but avid student of the
liberal arts. But now that I leave my nest and make way towards the real
world of Academia, I remain fixated on that dilemma. “Publish or
perish?” I thought to myself as I walked from Berkeley’s campus to Casa
Zimbabwe, “Says who? I want to speak to the manager! Why do institutions
of learning and knowledge value so highly the act of publishing? How
the hell did this come about?” And then I realized something rather
remarkable – my questions regarding the present value of publishing has
merit in its own right, but it ironically serves as a damn interesting
research topic for grad school.
I began, that very same day, scouring the internet to see if I could
locate any texts that would shed light on the history of publications,
and history of the book. What I found was more interesting than I could
have imagined. Enmeshed into this question is a half-millenium-long
debate regarding notions of patenting systems, literary proprietary,
copyright, and intellectual property law1. I began to study the history
of the book and discovered that there was a growing drive to capitalize
on the intellectual world when the printing press was introduced to
Europe in the 15th century. With the introduction of the printing press,
people could write, edit, publish, sell, and transmit knowledge so much
easier than ever before. Yet apprehensions over authorial rights began
to take hold over people who wrote texts or were in possession of some
craft knowledge. This was a valid concern because, as some of us
unfortunately know, people will steal your stuff or take credit for your
work in a damn heartbeat. Fricken piracy.
I cannot stress this enough: the following narrative on the history
of the book and the history of publication is a major
oversimplification. I merely paint a picture with very, very broad
strokes. From that moment on, patents were granted on a more regular
basis. Once a patent was secured, no one else could claim that the
work/craft was theirs. This effectively meant two things: 1) anyone
violating the patent (by reduplicating the author or craftsman’s work
without permission) would be breaking a law. This endeavor sought to
eliminate the rampant piracy practices taking place when people
discovered that they could simply counterfeit works and sell them as
their own and 2) anyone in possession of a patent, i.e., an “author” or
“inventor”, could legally gain as much financial compensation for the
mental labour exerted in the writing as was sold in the form of print.
The potential for a mercantile enterprise in the form of a book trade
became apparent. In $hort, people learned that you can $tart making $ome
cheddar a$ an author and producer of knowledge (or a$ a counterfeiter).
This guiding principle of commercialization governed the book trade
henceforth and, therefore, the culture of intellectual life as well. It
originated through trade secrets in the guilds of the 12th century
before manifesting into the attitudes towards craft knowledge and
literary authorship. It was present when Filippo Brunelleschi refused to
unveil his craft knowledge of how to construct the Duomo in Florence
unless he received a patent; it was present when Aldus Manutius
established his printing press in Venice in the late 1400’s, and when he
warned readers against counterfeit printers of Lyon who were selling
his editions of classical Greek and Latin texts; it was present when the
Stationer’s Company in England during the 16th century was tangled up
in legal battles of who deserves credit for what idea, and therefore who
would receive what financial compensation; it was present during the
Scientific revolution when Boyle, Fitzgerald, and Walcot all raced to
develop a machine for desalinating salt water, so as to be left with
“pure” water and salt alone, and by extension also discover a means to
carry out nautical operations more conveniently. When navigating the
oceans, whether it be upon endeavors of international trade or naval
expeditions, seafarers had necessary cause to bring their ships to shore
for the sake of acquiring fresh water. A desalination machine would
effectively reduce this need by dramatic degrees, thus enabling seagoing
expeditions to ensue more efficiently than ever before. A working
desalination
machine, much like the other aforementioned examples, would arguably
bolster the economic market while also augmenting the credited
inventor’s monetary status.
On the other hand, some viewed the monopolization of knowledge as a
sad, detrimental practice in the transmission of knowledge and learning.
One such example (among countless others) is when Francis Moult
acquired a published copy of Nehemiah Grew’s2 medical treatise written
only in Latin, a text intended for a Latin reading audience only. Moult
translated the text into English and sold it. He was concerned with
accessibility of texts and knowledge, and found it abhorrent for some
elitist dude to preserve medical information to Latin readers alone. For
Moult, pirating a published work was not a ploy to elevate his
financial status; he simply aimed to make the text accessible due to his
sense of social responsibility. Hell yeah, Moult. Fight the system!
Rage against the machine!
Moult’s sentiments are still relevant today. Criticism towards that
reality of publish or perish is still ripe amongst graduate students
and professors alike. This summer, I was privileged to live in the same
Co-Op as a curious science-minded fellow in a science-related PhD
program at Cal. Let’s just call him Derick. He appeared to dedicate much
of his time to the indulgence of his curiosity by concocting random
experiments as he so desired. He had a certain air to him, an aroma of
experimental philosophy that emanates from the empiricist attitudes
during the scientific revolution. His funky endeavors would always call
to my mind the Baconian method of experimental, practical, empirical
knowledge, elaborated and enumerated in Book II of Novum Organum
Scientiarum, and in the “New Science” espoused in New Atlantis as
well. Several times did I find Derick undertaking random experiments in
the house with equipment that he jerry-rigged from household appliances.
I once said goodnight to Derick as he was recording data from an
experiment on the bottom floor of our co-op. It was sometime around 1:30
am. I woke up around 8 am and went to the balcony to have a cigarette.
He was still there, wearing the same clothes, continuing on with the
same task of data collection. He had hardly moved, save to record his
data.
Nehemiah Grew is credited with the “discovery” of Epsom Salt, which
was really just a specific kind of salt found in the town of Epsom.
In between the drags of our cigarettes, we lamented over the
messed-up reality of publish or perish. “Why”, we bemoaned, “doesn’t
Academia just let me live the life of the mind?” In the midst of those
laments, he was procrastinating on writing his dissertation, and I was
procrastinating on my upcoming research and writing. Like children
complaining of a toothaches while throwing yet another jolly rancher in
their mouths, we complained about the institutional demand for
publications while not seeking to get published. Yet we both knew how
prudent it would be to try writing and publishing some delicious stuff
if we intend to survive in Academia.
I guess a certain question still looms under the surface of these
apprehensions: do I want pursue a career in Academia? The notion of
public or perish is a lot of pressure. After all, Academia, so I’m
told, boils down to one of two things. Would I rather publish or perish
in Academia? Honestly, dude, I don’t have an answer for that question.
What I do know, however, is that I found a research topic that really
butters my biscuit. I’ve been reading about the history of the book and
history of publication since mid-summer as if my life depends on it.
And, to be frank, it sometimes does feel like my life does depend on it,
but only when I forget that I have back-up plans. The ball is in my
court. Maybe I won’t get a job in Academia. Maybe I will. But regardless
of whether I work in Academia later on, I can still weasel some private
institution into paying me for half a decade to indulge my curiosity in
the history of publishing without ever getting published. That would be
some next-level irony. Take that, Academia.