The Enduring "Shame of the Graduate Schools": Rereading Arrowsmith

 “I’m retiring.” By this my young colleague meant not stepping back after a long, fulfilling career of teaching and scholarship, but leaving the academic life altogether after too many years in what is now called the precariat: a world where settling into anything seems out of reach as you bounce from one gig to another: post-docs, one-year sabbatical replacements, visiting assistant professor gigs, always with the prospect of a tenure-track job just out of reach. She’s had enough, and who can blame her?

My young colleague’s plight, which is neither uncommon nor justified, sent me back to an article that I first read in 1992 or 1993, when it was reprinted in the journal Arion. William Arrowsmith’s “The Shame of the Graduate Schools: A Plea for a New American Scholar” is older than that, though; it was first published in Harper’s in March, 1966. It’s still worth reading, although it shows its years in two or three places. Clearing them away highlights the differences between then and now and reveals what remains true and relevant in Arrowsmith’s essay.

First, Arrowsmith writes before the feminist revolution of the 1970s and later. He assumes that everyone in academe is male. It’s not simply the old-fashioned use of “man” to mean “human being,” as when he says at the very beginning of the article that our present system of graduate education has “little pertinence to the real needs of men” (159). In Arrowsmith’s 1966, professors and students alike are all guys: “we have trained as scholars men who are not fit to be scholars” (165), “very few men are fitted by nature or bent to become scholars” (166), “three out of four men in academic life are the victims of this wasteful and terrible system” (166) and so on. It’s easy to see and correct for this obsolete prejudice.

Less easy to see, perhaps, is Arrowsmith’s assumption that everyone will have a job, and that the problem is what happens when they do. But 1966 was the before times. For at least half a century, there have been more people qualified to teach classics and other humane subjects in colleges than there have been jobs for them to fill. This article on “gypsy scholars” from 1982 takes the problem for granted and cites numbers that have barely changed since then: three or four new PhDs for every job. In my own recollection, the academic job market began to close down about ten years earlier, in the early 1970s.

Finally, Arrowsmith picks a good target but aims for the wrong place. He wants to blame the malaise of the humanities on the professoriat’s belief that there is a truth of the matter, and that like scientists, humanistic research seeks to find that truth: In every humanistic field today one still finds the same vogue of objectivity and the same hatred of the subjective; the cult of the fact and the naive faith in the accumulation of data; an obsession with methodology and classification; a profound unwillingness to make normative judgments; a preoccupation with "problems" and the purely informational definition of knowledge (161). In 1966, this may have been true. Just look at the table of contents of Transactions of the American Philological Society for that year: we find articles on the meaning of talaria in a line of Ovid and on the historical use of galley slaves in antiquity, a quantitative study of Vergil’s hexameter, a description of a manuscript of Cicero’s Somnium Scipionis, an attempt to sort out the chronology of Lucan’s career, a study of Cinna’s coinage, and other historicist and positivist pieces. Any of these could have been published in 1900. (There are also signs of the future, most notably “A Binary-Octal Code for Analyzing Hexameters,” described as “well suited to computer programming” at a time when only a handful of classicists had access to any kind of digital computer.)

Arrowsmith wrote just before the second and third revolutions in classics that I described in a previous post. The feminist revolution that began in the 1970s and the wave of theory that swept over literary and cultural studies beginning in the 1980s buried his “cult of the fact” under a wave of the “normative judgments” that he praised and made his inveighing against traditional Altertumswissenschaft obsolete. Because of this, it may be hard to see what Arrowsmith gets right. In part six of his essay, he distinguishes three types of person (or as he puts it, “humanistic intelligence”) who would make up the faculty of his ideal university: teachers, artists, and scholars. The problem, in Arrowsmith’s view, is that “We have made the costly mistake of forcing our graduate students in the humanities into the common mold of the publishing and productive scholar” (171).

Of all the points that Arrowsmith made sixty years ago, this alone remains true. Despite occasional stabs at preparing graduate students to teach, nearly every PhD program in classics aims its seminars and other programs toward producing “the publishing and productive scholar” and toward the assumed felicity of a tenure-track job. Consider advertisements in this year’s job listing from the Society for Classical Studies. Nearly every one of the tenure track positions asks for someone with a PhD in “classics or a related field” and either a record of publication or “an active research agenda.” When teaching is mentioned, it is called a “teaching load”—that is, a burden. A few jobs, signaled by different titles (“lecturer,” “professor of practice,” “instructional professor,” and the like), ask for someone who will focus on teaching; these jobs are uniformly not tenured or tenure-track, and they usually pay less than a tenure-track job. As for artists, the third of Arrowsmith’s humanistic intelligences, it’s enough to ponder the fate at Princeton of this year’s Nobel laureate in literature.

Changing this monoclonal academic culture would require an almost total reset in humanities graduate programs and in a university culture that makes each scholar an independent academic entrepeneur. It might be worth looking at how good independent schools fill vacancies; there, in my experience, a department asks not “How do we find another person just like us (but maybe with a different academic specialization)?” but “What kind of person do we need to complete this team? We already have one or two people who can model scholarship for our students; do we need to look for a coach, or a poet?"

Resetting academe in this way might not help my young colleague. She’s done everything right: earned a good doctorate, published books and articles, and given thought and energy to good teaching. That, I suspect, is her real gift, and so there may be no place for her in a system that has room for only one of Arrowsmith’s three humanistic intelligences.

 In all the punditry around our 250th July 4, a nostalgic theme recurs: this one is not as good as the last time. In 1976, we're assured, people were able to come together in an American spirit of optimism, despite the fact that those were also difficult, polarized times.

The 1970s were indeed difficult--stagflation, the end of the Vietnam debacle, Watergate--but there was a difference that has been overlooked. On July 4, 1976, we had real reason for optimism. People forget how Watergate ended, but I remember vividly the sense that some huge, antique, steampunkish machine had slowly begun to move its gears and then moved faster and faster until finally it was working once again.

The Constitution, I mean. Watching the Watergate hearings unfold on television was an accelerated course—guided by a brilliant Texan orator, Barbara Jordan—on how the separation of powers is supposed to work. Slowly at first but then with accelerating speed, Congress asserted its authority. On August 9, 1974, Nixon was gone--not impeached and convicted, but driven out by what Cicero liked to call the consensus omnium bonorum, the consensus of all good people. President Ford, in a move that I thought then and still think was right, pardoned him. The country breathed a sigh of relief, and smiled.

So 1976 was different, for a number of reasons. Some of them, like the universal narrative conveyed by a television with three or four channels, cannot be recovered. One can: the willingness of Congress to undertake its role and duty under Article I of the Constitution. For that to happen, "we the people," the sovereign authority invoked in the Preamble, will have to act. Our next chance to start the old machine's cogs and wheels comes in November.

~Lee Pearcy
July 4, 2026

Suggested Reading (Presidential Version)

 

It's a safe bet that Donald Trump isn't much of a reader, but he should read, or perhaps have read to him, at least part of Herodotus' Histories. (The translation that I pulled off my shelf is called The Persian Wars, which should get his attention.) I recommend starting with the Lydian Logos, the name given to chapters 7–91 of Book One. It's the story of Croesus, who ruled the Kingdom of Lydia (western Turkey) from about 561 until 547 BC.

Croesus received a visit from Solon the Athenian, one of the semi-legendary Seven Sages of archaic Greece. Croesus gave his distinguished visitor a tour of his palace and then took him into his treasuries. (I always think of Disney's Scrooge McDuck in his money bin.) 

Amid all the gold, Croesus asked Solon who was the most fortunate man in the world.

But let me allow Herodotus to tell the story:

So Solon, having left his native country for this reason and for the sake of seeing various lands, came to Amasis in Egypt, and also to Crœsus at Sardis. Having there arrived he was entertained as a guest by Crœsus in the king's palace; and afterwards, on the third or fourth day, at the bidding of Crœsus his servants led Solon round to see his treasuries; and they showed him all things, how great and magnificent they were: and after he had looked upon them all and examined them as he had occasion, Crœsus asked him as follows: "Athenian guest, much report of thee has come to us, both in regard to thy wisdom and thy wanderings, how that in thy search for wisdom thou hast traversed many lands to see them; now therefore a desire has come upon me to ask thee whether thou hast seen any whom thou deemest to be of all men the most happy." This he asked supposing that he himself was the happiest of men; but Solon, using no flattery but the truth only, said: "Yes, O king, Tellos the Athenian." And Crœsus, marvelling at that which he said, asked him earnestly: "In what respect dost thou judge Tellos to be the most happy?" And he said: "Tellos, in the first place, living while his native State was prosperous, had sons fair and good and saw from all of them children begotten and living to grow up; and secondly he had what with us is accounted wealth, and after his life a most glorious end: for when a battle was fought by the Athenians at Eleusis against the neighbouring people, he brought up supports and routed the foe and there died by a most fair death; and the Athenians buried him publicly where he fell, and honoured him greatly."

Croesus tried again: 

31. So when Solon had moved Crœsus to inquire further by the story of Tellos, recounting how many points of happiness he had, the king asked again whom he had seen proper to be placed next after this man, supposing that he himself would certainly obtain at least the second place; but he replied: "Cleobis and Biton: for these, who were of Argos by race, possessed a sufficiency of wealth and, in addition to this, strength of body such as I shall tell. Both equally had won prizes in the games, and moreover the following tale is told of them:--There was a feast of Hera among the Argives and it was by all means necessary that their mother should be borne in a car to the temple. But since their oxen were not brought up in time from the field, the young men, barred from all else by lack of time, submitted themselves to the yoke and drew the wain, their mother being borne by them upon it; and so they brought it on for five-and-forty furlongs, and came to the temple. Then after they had done this and had been seen by the assembled crowd, there came to their life a most excellent ending; and in this the deity declared that it was better for man to die than to continue to live. For the Argive men were standing round and extolling the strength of the young men, while the Argive women were extolling the mother to whose lot it had fallen to have such sons; and the mother being exceedingly rejoiced both by the deed itself and by the report made of it, took her stand in front of the image of the goddess and prayed that she would give to Cleobis and Biton her sons, who had honoured her greatly, that gift which is best for man to receive: and after this prayer, when they had sacrificed and feasted, the young men lay down to sleep within the temple itself, and never rose again, but were held bound in this last end. And the Argives made statues in the likeness of them and dedicated them as offerings at Delphi, thinking that they had proved themselves most excellent." 

32. Thus Solon assigned the second place in respect of happiness to these: and Crœsus was moved to anger and said: "Athenian guest, hast thou then so cast aside our prosperous state as worth nothing, that thou dost prefer to us even men of private station?" And he said: "Crœsus, thou art inquiring about human fortunes of one who well knows that the Deity is altogether envious and apt to disturb our lot. For in the course of long time a man may see many things which he would not desire to see, and suffer also many things which he would not desire to suffer. The limit of life for a man I lay down at seventy years: and these seventy years give twenty-five thousand and two hundred days, not reckoning for any intercalated month. Then if every other one of these years shall be made longer by one month, that the seasons may be caused to come round at the due time of the year, the intercalated months will be in number five-and-thirty besides the seventy years; and of these months the days will be one thousand and fifty. Of all these days, being in number twenty-six thousand two hundred and fifty, which go to the seventy years, one day produces nothing at all which resembles what another brings with it. Thus then, O Crœsus, man is altogether a creature of accident. As for thee, I perceive that thou art both great in wealth and king of many men, but that of which thou didst ask me I cannot call thee yet, until I learn that thou hast brought thy life to a fair ending: for the very rich man is not at all to be accounted more happy than he who has but his subsistence from day to day, unless also the fortune go with him of ending his life well in possession of all things fair. For many very wealthy men are not happy, while many who have but a moderate living are fortunate; and in truth the very rich man who is not happy has two advantages only as compared with the poor man who is fortunate, whereas this latter has many as compared with the rich man who is not happy. The rich man is able better to fulfil his desire, and also to endure a great calamity if it fall upon him; whereas the other has advantage over him in these things which follow:--he is not indeed able equally with the rich man to endure a calamity or to fulfil his desire, but these his good fortune keeps away from him, while he is sound of limb, free from disease, untouched by suffering, the father of fair children and himself of comely form; and if in addition to this he shall end his life well, he is worthy to be called that which thou seekest, namely a happy man; but before he comes to his end it is well to hold back and not to call him yet happy but only fortunate. Now to possess all these things together is impossible for one who is mere man, just as no single land suffices to supply all tings for itself, but one thing it has and another it lacks, and the land that has the greatest number of things is the best: so also in the case of a man, no single person is complete in himself, for one thing he has and another he lacks; but whosoever of men continues to the end in possession of the greatest number of these things and then has a gracious ending of his life, he is by me accounted worthy, O king, to receive this name. But we must of every thing examine the end and how it will turn out at the last, for to many God shows but a glimpse of happiness and then plucks them up by the roots and overturns them." 

33. Thus saying he refused to gratify Crœsus, who sent him away from his presence holding him in no esteem, and thinking him utterly senseless in that he passed over present good things and bade men look to the end of every matter. 

Perhaps now, as the president's war with Iran enters its third week, he will want to find out what happened next. Croesus decided to attack the growing Persian empire of Cyrus the Great, which was expanding into Cappadocia, on the eastern border of Lydia. It didn't end well--but then, things are apt not to go well in the end for small-minded despots obsessed with gold and marble.

~Lee Pearcy
March 16, 2026

Plato in Texas

 Somewhere below the virtual fold in this morning's virtual papers was a headline announcing "Texas A&M … Warns Professor Not to Teach Plato" (NY Times), "Texas A&M Bans Plato Excerpt" (Chronicle of Higher Education), and the like. If you dig a little deeper, complications ensue. It appears as though a dean at A&M, overzealously or rigidly interpreting a university policy that courses eligible for general education credit may not "advocate race or gender ideology, or topics related to sexual orientation or gender identity," instructed Martin Peterson, a professor of philosophy, to remove two modules from the syllabus of a course called "Contemporary Moral Issues." One module dealt with race, the other with gender identity. Readings for the modules included selections from Plato's Symposium, specifically Diotima's ladder of love and Aristophanes' speech on the formation of gender. (I'll pass over the irony of banning the philosopher who wanted to ban the poets from his ideal republic on the grounds that they corrupted morals.) 

Plato, that is, appears to have been collateral damage. At one level, I'm glad to see the newspapers emphasize Plato, since banning a book is an excellent way of making people want to read it. But focusing on the sheer stupidity of banning Plato from a philosophy course risks underemphasizing the greater stupidity embodied by the university's policy, and the greater danger in its threat to academic freedom.  It seems needless to say that A&M's regulation came in response to ideological pressure from the state and federal governments.

It's good, also, to be reminded that the books we classicists read and teach glow from within, and that like all radioactive substances, they are powerful, and dangerous if mishandled.

~Lee T. Pearcy
January 8, 2026

Why Is This Bookshelf Frightening?

 

Plato, Aristotle, Plutarch, some elementary Latin textbooks—it could be a bookshelf in my study, if I were a little more interested in Proclus and Neoplatonism than I am. But this shelf belongs to a man named Eric Orwoll, a classically trained musician, self-taught student of Greek philosophy, and founder of a new housing development in far northern Arkansas. Mr. Orwoll and his co-developer, the New York Times reports, think that they have found a legal way to make their new development available to white people only. Because I made my living as a teacher of Greek and Latin and like to think that what I taught helped my students to become better human beings, this is distressing. Even though I know that you can’t blame the tools for what the workman does with them, it upsets me to see texts that I love connected with actions that I find repugnant.

The Times article and the picture of Orwoll’s bookshelf that accompanied are troubling for another reason. They may give ammunition to people who want to insist not merely that classics are outdated, but that they are in fact pernicious relics of a racist past and gateway drugs to a racist future. But should it? The most prominent advocates of this position, like Donna Zuckerberg and Dan-El Padilla Peralta, operate within the circle of professional classicists, people with PhDs who teach in universities. When they teach, lecture, and publish, are they even talking about the same thing that Mr. Orwoll and his Nazified Neoplatonists mean by "classics"?

Classics, by whatever name you want to call it, has a long, complex history. The habit of thinking about Greece and Rome and using them as touchstones for high culture or exemplars of an imagined ideal past--racist or egalitarian, democratic or imperial, Athenian, Spartan, or Roman--has been part of Western culture since at least the Renaissance, or perhaps before. (The Romans, after all, may have begun classics when they began to use ancient Greece as a model for literature, architecture, and art.) The academic subject represented by departments of classics in places like Princeton or Bryn Mawr, in contrast, hasn't existed for very long--perhaps for a couple of centuries.

So imagining that some racists’ use of Greece and Rome somehow implicates the subject overseen by the Society for Classical Studies and taught by the classics department at Harvard is a confusion based on superficial resemblance. People who read the same things don’t always read them in the same way. Novels can change your life, but there’s a big difference between reading Middlemarch because Dorothea Brooke speaks to your condition and reading Middlemarch because you’re an English professor working on forms of epistemological hegemony in the Victorian novel. It’s hard, also, to see how changes in one of these forms of using Greece and Rome would have any effect on the other. Decolonizing the classics at Yale is unlikely to have any effect on Mr. Orwoll and his kind. They will continue to read or misread the old books, confuse classical ornament with classical form in architecture, and imagine a Rome and Greece that never existed.

But Mr. Orwoll and his ilk do have a warning for the other classicists, those of us who work in schools and universities. The texts we handle so casually remain powerful. Plato or Aristotle or Vergil have something beautiful and important to say, and deep study of them can change your life. At this beginning of an academic year, we need to remember their power, and their danger, when we put them so casually and freely into the hands of our students.

By way of introduction

 Fifteen years ago, inspired by the late Kathryn G. Bosher (1974–2013) and her Classicizing Chicago project, I founded Classicizing Philadelphia. With some modest funding from the Classical Association of the Atlantic States and Bryn Mawr College, that digital humanities project grew into a web site, a short-lived mobile app, and a blog. By 2016 it was clear that the project needed a permanent home and a younger director, and I handed it over to Haverford College--where it remains, entombed in the graveyard of "Past Initiatives." The blog, which had been used mostly to report on Classicizing Philadelphia and its progress, remained alive as classicizingphiladelphia.blogs.brynmawr.edu. Over time, the Classicizing Philadelphia blog had less and less to say about its original subject. I wrote about Cycladic art at the Metropolitan Museum, tyranny and Trump, Trump as a postmodern president, class and party realignments, Gibbon's Decline and Fall, the fate of books, artificial intelligence, summer reading, Bryn Mawr's cancelling of its founder, and pronouns—and those are just the ten most recent posts.

Also, as far as I could tell, no one read it.

It seems time for a fresh start. "Classicizing in Philadelphia" will talk about some of the things that I like to think about: classics and classical studies, education in general, art (both history and practice), and cultural and political movements. My models will be the academic blogs that I read and enjoy: Mary Beard's "A Don's Life" in the TLS, Edith Hall's "Edithorial," and especially John V. Fleming's "Gladly Lerne, Gladly Teche." I won't try to match Prof. Fleming's disciplined pace of one post a week, but I'll aim for about one a month, and I'll try to write sentences that people want to read. I may also from time to time repost essays from the old Classicizing Philadelphia blog.

We're off! Read and enjoy.