The duty of the humanities

How do the sciences differ from the humanities? Let us say, briefly, that while the former seek what is quantitative and aim to formulate general laws, the humanities do not shy away from ambiguity; indeed, complexity is part of their fascination. Humanists perceive the interconnections among all things, and their interests are guided above all by values. These brief definitions will serve to introduce our subject.

Peter Caws, a professor of philosophy, invites us to reflect on the responsibility of the humanities in our technological age. One of his works makes it clear from the outset that he does not belong to the group of “romantic” critics of technology: he dedicates it to the ingenious Chinese man who invented paper, the humanists’ best friend, nineteen hundred years ago. He lived at the Imperial Court, and his name was Ts’Ai Lun. And to reaffirm the early concern of humanists with technology, Caws recalls the illustrious precedent of the authors of the Encyclopédie.

Among the first philosophers to take an interest in technology, a special place belongs to those who published the Encyclopédie between 1751 and 1772, led by Diderot and D’Alembert. Its full title clearly explains the scope of that immense work: Encyclopedia, or a systematic dictionary of the sciences, arts, and crafts, by a society of men of letters. These remarkable thinkers had the patience to visit workshops, question craftsmen from every trade, draw their tools, artifacts, and machines, and explain each technique in detail. More than that: in many cases, they became craftsmen themselves. They wanted to understand them, because they believed that, living in a technological age—as is any civilization not based on slavery—the first duty of a thinking person was to comprehend intellectually this fundamental activity of human beings living in society.

But the work contained other ingredients as well. It reflected not only a philosophically new attitude of tolerance and liberalism, but also skepticism and criticism of the abuses committed by the powers of the time. Political, legal, judicial, and ecclesiastical institutions were placed in the dock, though often indirectly. So much so that the Encyclopédie is regarded as one of the major works of progressive thought that influenced the French Revolution. As a result, the successive publication of its volumes followed a troubled course. The Church—the Jesuits in particular—and officials of the monarchy repeatedly imposed censorship and prohibitions. In 1752, several volumes were suppressed. In 1759, the work was formally condemned and publication was interrupted. Diderot had to perform all kinds of maneuvers in order to carry the project through to the end.

By an irony of fate, the collection received decisive help from the least imaginable official: the very man in charge of censorship. This gentleman, who perhaps deserves a bust in some society devoted to freedom of the press, was a botanist named, curiously enough, Malesherbes. He was responsible for granting written works the king’s approval and privilege, yet his ideas were quite different from those held by the monarchy and conservatives. He said, for example, that a man who had read only books published with the Church’s nihil obstat and the government’s authorization would be a century behind his contemporaries.

On one occasion, a man known for his liberal ideas asked Malesherbes to censor a libel written against him because it was excessively vile. Malesherbes replied that “freedom of the press is something one must know how to enjoy as well as how to endure.” Malesherbes protected the director of the Encyclopédie. Once, when he was required by royal order to seize the printing materials, he not only warned Diderot of what he was about to do but also helped him hide them in the least suspicious place imaginable: Malesherbes’s own office, the office of the chief censor. (A trick similar to the one Poe uses in his story “The Purloined Letter,” in which the guilty man leaves the letter brazenly visible on his own desk in order to divert suspicion.)

Thus arose the paradox that the magistrate responsible for censorship became the guardian angel of this liberating enterprise. Another anecdote about the work’s eventful history appears in the delightful apocryphal correspondence written by Fernando Savater. The king was dining at the Trianon with several courtiers, and the conversation turned to hunting and the gunpowder used for shooting. Opinions differed as to the necessary composition of the mixture: how much nitrate, sulfur, and charcoal it should contain. They could not agree on the proportions, and someone remarked how curious it was that they did not actually know the composition of something they used so often to kill partridges at Versailles and, on occasion, men in war.

“That happens with everything in this world,” sighed Madame de Pompadour. “I do not even know what the rouge with which I color my cheeks is made of!”

“Well, it is a pity,” exclaimed the Duke of La Vallière, “that His Majesty has confiscated the encyclopedic dictionary; there we would find the answers to such questions.”

Louis XV justified the seizure of the twenty-one volumes the collection had reached by then: he had been told that it was dangerous to the security of the Kingdom. But he was willing to find out for himself. He therefore sent three pages to fetch them, and they were able to determine who was right about the composition of gunpowder and how the rouge used by the ladies of Paris was prepared.

“What a useful book!” exclaimed Madame de Pompadour. “Sire, I do not think it was right for you to prohibit it.”

The king grumbled. One of those present commented that bad advisers surely detested the work because it was too good; no one becomes indignant over mediocrity. Louis was receptive to the various arguments that were raised and revoked the prohibition. In this way, the continuation of the Encyclopédie was saved.

Let us return to our professor of philosophy and consider, simplifying it as much as possible, his reasoning as to why humanists should concern themselves with technology. First, it must be understood, not merely used. And what does technology do? In general, it amplifies human abilities. But this means that it can amplify our ability both to do intelligent things and to do foolish ones; and we know that it is widely used for purposes of the latter kind.

Technologists have placed their knowledge and their amplifying artifacts in the hands of individuals who give little thought to the purposes they ought, from a humanistic perspective, to serve. The task of the humanities, in addition to understanding technology, is to make technologists and society more critical and reflective; it is a “humanizing” task. For the central responsibility of the humanities is to articulate what is best. By contrast, the anti-humanist spirit—which does not hesitate to use the most sophisticated technological resources to spread its message—has historically been effective at bringing out the worst in human nature and, even more, at suppressing the best. For what is best always reaches a little further and therefore always risks being regarded as subversive. The Encyclopédie, for example, was regarded that way in its own time.

This does not mean that people should give up the benefits of technology. It simply means that those benefits must be judged in light of their human consequences. Humanists should strive, for example, to propose more imaginative uses of technology. “When the true muses withdraw from the scene, the false muses are ready to take over.” The former must be found and strengthened: sought, for example, in good radio and television broadcasts, and in well-conceived educational and social programs. And above all, in libraries. For thanks in part to paper—that extraordinary means of storing and retrieving culture invented by Ts’Ai Lun in the Celestial Empire 2,000 years ago—it is there, in libraries, that the best of the human spirit resides.