Why are some of the greatest works in, and of, history
created very late in a scholar’s life? The human lifespan, even as it has lengthened over the centuries,
remains too short for those who undertake truly great humanistic projects in
their later years. Immanuel Kant, for
example, worked against the grain of time as he struggled to finish his life’s
work. He was not alone—before or since, and across almost all of the continents on the globe.
I became aware of this as a problem (although not, until recently, as one worthy of scholarly examination) when my (then) fifty-seven year-old graduate adviser embarked upon a translation of a 2,000 page, one hundred chapter Ming dynasty novel filled with idiomatic language and endlessly fascinating issues of cultural interpretation. Why, I asked myself, would he “cut it so close” as to leave “only” a quarter-century, and those in the twilight of life, to do such a work?
That was almost twenty-five years ago, and Professor David Tod Roy now has four of the most impressive volumes of translation and cultural interpretation ever published in any language. It is a heroic, and almost complete, success story, and the world is better for it. I will have much more to say about that project in this series. I studied with him as the first volume neared completion in the late-1980s (we read all of the drafts over the course of a yearlong seminar). That volume was published in 1993, and Professor Roy turned sixty that year. Now, twenty years later, it's four down, and one to go.*
*Update: as of 2013, he is done—the translation is complete and published.
It does not always work quite that way, though.
Perhaps there is no better recent example of combined success and failure than another University of Chicago faculty member. Mircea Eliade's life’s work (he, a renowned historian of religions) included voluminous publications ranging from highly personal writings to interpretive works that continue to be used in higher education over the decades. His journals, however, show an increasing frustration with running out of time, and nowhere is that more clear than in a journal entry written when he was seventy-two years old and struggling to wrap up “loose ends” in his work. He records the following dream:
I became aware of this as a problem (although not, until recently, as one worthy of scholarly examination) when my (then) fifty-seven year-old graduate adviser embarked upon a translation of a 2,000 page, one hundred chapter Ming dynasty novel filled with idiomatic language and endlessly fascinating issues of cultural interpretation. Why, I asked myself, would he “cut it so close” as to leave “only” a quarter-century, and those in the twilight of life, to do such a work?
That was almost twenty-five years ago, and Professor David Tod Roy now has four of the most impressive volumes of translation and cultural interpretation ever published in any language. It is a heroic, and almost complete, success story, and the world is better for it. I will have much more to say about that project in this series. I studied with him as the first volume neared completion in the late-1980s (we read all of the drafts over the course of a yearlong seminar). That volume was published in 1993, and Professor Roy turned sixty that year. Now, twenty years later, it's four down, and one to go.*
*Update: as of 2013, he is done—the translation is complete and published.
It does not always work quite that way, though.
Perhaps there is no better recent example of combined success and failure than another University of Chicago faculty member. Mircea Eliade's life’s work (he, a renowned historian of religions) included voluminous publications ranging from highly personal writings to interpretive works that continue to be used in higher education over the decades. His journals, however, show an increasing frustration with running out of time, and nowhere is that more clear than in a journal entry written when he was seventy-two years old and struggling to wrap up “loose ends” in his work. He records the following dream:
21 July 1979
I leave home with the manuscript of a study on which I
had worked several
months, to make a photocopy of it. I come to a strange garden or park in the
vicinity of the office where the manuscript is to be photocopied. A well-dressed
man is there, with many small animals around him. I don’t know why, but I fold
the manuscript together, reducing it to the size of a sandwich, and try, for fun,
to threaten a little rat with it. But the animal takes hold of the packet with his
mouth and won’t let go. Although he isn’t biting or chewing it, I observe that
the manuscript is getting smaller. Impossible to pull it out of the rat’s mouth…
I watch desperately as my manuscript disappears. Very soon there is nothing
left in my hand but a narrow strip of paper, a few millimeters wide. Only then
does the rat let loose of it…[1]
months, to make a photocopy of it. I come to a strange garden or park in the
vicinity of the office where the manuscript is to be photocopied. A well-dressed
man is there, with many small animals around him. I don’t know why, but I fold
the manuscript together, reducing it to the size of a sandwich, and try, for fun,
to threaten a little rat with it. But the animal takes hold of the packet with his
mouth and won’t let go. Although he isn’t biting or chewing it, I observe that
the manuscript is getting smaller. Impossible to pull it out of the rat’s mouth…
I watch desperately as my manuscript disappears. Very soon there is nothing
left in my hand but a narrow strip of paper, a few millimeters wide. Only then
does the rat let loose of it…[1]
Eliade’s dream “came true” six years later. A fire engulfed his University of Chicago
office, burning all of his books (with their careful interlinear notations) and
handwritten manuscripts. Eliade lived on
for only a few more months, a man broken by the loss of his living oeuvre.
*** ***
Others who embark on long projects must wonder
whether they will ever find a way to use their scholarly skills to their
fullest before their own time is gone. Above all of them hangs the specter of the unfinished manuscript, of a
writing life left incomplete.
One of the great contrasts in academia can be seen between the "sciences" and the "humanities." It has long been felt that scientists make their marks before thirty (or thereabouts), while humanists tend to have it all come together, so to speak, a good deal later. Almost every academic knows this little bit of conventional wisdom. There is just one problem for humanists, though, and it's structural.
People procrastinate. And then they die.
Human beings have had, for all of recorded history (including radiocarbon dating), a limited lifespan. Some speculate that the upper limit is 120 years. Let's not kid ourselves, though. From Confucius and Plato to Kant and Zhang Xuecheng, we see about fifty years of productivity, with an upper limit somewhere between the age of seventy and eighty. Yes, there are a few Karl Poppers and Will-and-Ariel Durants who push full-time writing beyond ninety. The reality, however, is that it's pretty difficult to make the case for enormous scholarly productivity after the age of eighty. The stories that exist are so fascinating that they pretty much prove the "rule." Something this commonly-understood must have more than anecdotes behind it, right?
Right. We've got philosophy.
 |
| [c] Pubcrastination RF |
One of the great contrasts in academia can be seen between the "sciences" and the "humanities." It has long been felt that scientists make their marks before thirty (or thereabouts), while humanists tend to have it all come together, so to speak, a good deal later. Almost every academic knows this little bit of conventional wisdom. There is just one problem for humanists, though, and it's structural.
People procrastinate. And then they die.
Human beings have had, for all of recorded history (including radiocarbon dating), a limited lifespan. Some speculate that the upper limit is 120 years. Let's not kid ourselves, though. From Confucius and Plato to Kant and Zhang Xuecheng, we see about fifty years of productivity, with an upper limit somewhere between the age of seventy and eighty. Yes, there are a few Karl Poppers and Will-and-Ariel Durants who push full-time writing beyond ninety. The reality, however, is that it's pretty difficult to make the case for enormous scholarly productivity after the age of eighty. The stories that exist are so fascinating that they pretty much prove the "rule." Something this commonly-understood must have more than anecdotes behind it, right?
Right. We've got philosophy.
 |
| [d] Oeuvre RF |
In Sein Und Zeit (Being and Time), Martin Heidegger
notes that people are “of the world,” and that their entire sense of being in
the world is colored by their emplacement in it. There is no life, no work, without a world. Human lives, however, are always affected by
the certainty of death. In fact, the
concept of being is always influenced by perceived time. Heidegger uses the concept of being towards
death to articulate this tension of living in the shadow of dying. All of life, all action within the world,
then, is colored by the inevitability of an ending.
We know it. And we can't stop thinking about it.
When the creation of “endings” in a life’s work and the body’s life converge, we have a new problem worthy of historical and philosophical investigation—writing towards death. This is what we will study in a series devoted to understanding why some scholars (entrepreneurs, politicians, and regular folk) start projects that they may or may not have time to complete. I can't think of many more interesting issues. We are told that good stories have suspense. Well, suspense is built right into working on big projects with the specter of ending hanging over it.
Schubert. Enough said?
Of course not. Enough is never said on Round and Square so—building upon Heidegger—we will study the manner in
which a number of creative people dealt with the desire to
finish massive projects that would provide them fame, and their readers (or patrons) with both
knowledge and enjoyment.
The combination of personal pressure, social demands, and intellectual challenges facing the authors makes the pursuit of this question not only interesting from the perspective of human relations, but theoretically challenging as well. Writing towards death opens historiographical and cultural windows that have remained closed to scholars who have examined either individual biographies or whole genres of writing. By combining the analysis of individual dreams and despair with intellectual history, we can address issues in historiography and cultural theory from new perspectives.
So let's get started. Time's a-wastin'...
Notes
Mircea Eliade, Journal IV, 1979-1985 (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1990), 22.
Bibliography
Eliade, Mircea. Journal IV, 1979-1985. Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1990.
We know it. And we can't stop thinking about it.
When the creation of “endings” in a life’s work and the body’s life converge, we have a new problem worthy of historical and philosophical investigation—writing towards death. This is what we will study in a series devoted to understanding why some scholars (entrepreneurs, politicians, and regular folk) start projects that they may or may not have time to complete. I can't think of many more interesting issues. We are told that good stories have suspense. Well, suspense is built right into working on big projects with the specter of ending hanging over it.
Schubert. Enough said?
 |
| [e] Time being RF |
The combination of personal pressure, social demands, and intellectual challenges facing the authors makes the pursuit of this question not only interesting from the perspective of human relations, but theoretically challenging as well. Writing towards death opens historiographical and cultural windows that have remained closed to scholars who have examined either individual biographies or whole genres of writing. By combining the analysis of individual dreams and despair with intellectual history, we can address issues in historiography and cultural theory from new perspectives.
So let's get started. Time's a-wastin'...
Notes
Mircea Eliade, Journal IV, 1979-1985 (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1990), 22.
Bibliography
Eliade, Mircea. Journal IV, 1979-1985. Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1990.
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| [f] Being time RF |
