The Humanities????

During the intermission of a dissertation recital on the Czech composer Leoš Janáček, I narrated my philosophy experiences in LSA to my interlocutor, the pianist Arthur Greene.

Meanwhile in the ambience remains the grief of Sonata From The Street.

The sonata is alternatively called as 1. X. 1905. The two-movement work is in mourning of a carpenter named František Pavlík who died in a demonstration in support of the university on 1 Oct 1905.

Mvt.1, Předtucha (Foreboding)

The harmonic structure and melody in this piece remains one of the most poignant and heart-wrenching documentation of human sorrows.

Mvt. 2, Smrt (Death)

The repeated invocation of e-flat minor appears as a broken chord composed in dotted ryhthm.

So I subconsciously steered the conversational theme to my usual complaints about the insulation of academia. To relate to musicians, I murmured, philosophers, quite similar to musicians, like to live in their own bubble. I continued, the result tends to be, it is hard for “others”– both on an egalitarian scale and a professional scale to break in. 

I stumbled on spelling out the connotations for “others”-the racially and genderly marginalized, the less recognized, or the voiceless? Each of them, intricately and magically, leads to different breathing human entities and the responsibilities to project them in a comparably objective and respectful manner. In gray areas like this, I prefer to invoke Socratic ignorance: ὁ δὲ ἀνεξέταστος βίος οὐ βιωτὸς ἀνθρώπῳ, or the unexamined life is not worth living. Normalize the examination of life via proceeding ongoing, open-ended dialogues, and exhibit heartfelt though intentionally performative ignorance by appealing to a friendly, inclusive pronoun. I would say, in such considerations, “others” shall always be an apposite and safe choice. 

This is a common scene of the humanities–and one of its widespread criticisms, if you must ask me. They befriend the most ineffable, vulnerable parts of life, and create an intimacy that almost verges on ambiguity and confusions every time. Unfortunately, they seem to be rather feeble in the presence of the masses. Most of the reasons to preserve the humanities are extremely thin. It is difficult to justify its value. Each of us can list one or two pros about the humanities. We all love art, music, poetry, and film. They fill up our time, elevate our soul, and other cliches and forth. But what exactly is the point of the humanities? Is it listening to the so-called classical music? Is it an exhibition of Fitzgerald books? Or is it a pretense of depth? 

The humanities is always my best companion. I say it is a state of utmost affinity and security. The humanities befriend the most ineffable and vulnerable parts of our life, and create an intimacy that almost verges on ambiguity and confusions every time. Despite their straightforward and omnipresent influences on our daily life, the urgency to incorporate them into the education isn’t valued or appreciated as much as they deserve. It is true that society can’t be captured merely by idealistic slogans of the humanities. A healthy one is a cooperative combination of different forces and different disciplines which cordially support each other. The humanities is not supposed to be the only qualified candidate. Rather, they are vital in their role to humanize and rejuvenate along with their relatively more prevalent counterparts, such as economics, politics, computer science. 

They reflect exactly the infinitely updated, changing dimensions of both our physical and mental realities. They resonantly mirror each other in their respective, secret ways. In return, we rely on those cathartic, therapizing moments to thrive, tranquilize, and mend. Whenever we feel helpless or disappointed, or we are unwillingly triggered to think of traumatized flashbacks from our past selves, we shall turn to the humanities, our savior. 

Coincidentally, or not, in the concert hall, the eventual resolution of a Janáčekian harmony layered and prepared with a thousand different voices singing and piling together, renders an imaginary and temporary reconciliation amid the swirls of my inner struggles. I couldn’t quite justify this process. And I refuse to rationalize it patronizingly. I would only say, this is a shared, uplifting experience that we overcome our idiosyncratic paradoxes.  My relations with the external world, including the ill-defined ones with my family and past acquaintances, fade away civilly and lovingly, leaving not a single trace of cynicism or resentment. 

An Asian female born and raised in China, I navigate my identity in America with both excitement and tears. My parents’ generation was both a benefactor and victim of their time. No matter how much I hate fatalism, their wellbeing is proportional to the country’s arbitrary policies in education and economy. Tangled in multiple post-1949 social movements, they are deprived of the right to education and subsequently a free mind. 

My alienation from them and the circle I was raised in agonizes me. I refuse to identify Kunming as my hometown. The misogynistic and anti-intellectual attacks afflict so many pains. Each time I wake up from dreams, I feel extremely unsettled, that I was once again interlocked in that self-negated hometown, while the values there assault each moral fiber of mine and predicate self-imposed exiles. I am temporarily relieved when the unspeakable fragility in my unconsciousness is dissolved and answered by the pianistic residue of In The Mists. Same with the eagerness to embark on a dialectical exploration or volunteer for the underprivileged.  

“So how would you do that then? Sit in a corner in public and talk to strangers?” 

Arthur proceeded in his curious, slightly questioning but self-composed tone–similar to his almost intimidatingly transparent presence in students’ weekly private lessons. 

At difficult moments like this, my usual strategy is to insert a lighthearted joke amid this solemn and somewhat awkward stalemate. Should one wander on the streets like Socrates and talk to random strangers?

Well we all know what happened later. He got killed for alleged “corruption” of the youths. Socrates prefers death over a life of moral hypocrisy.

Perhaps, we should.