Perhaps there is no contradiction here. Perhaps the mistake lies in thinking that having Robert Harrison as a mentor involves becoming a Harrisonian – whatever that means. Academia often promotes this type of thinking: model yourself after a successful scholar, who hopefully also serves as your advisor, and depend on that model to secure future employment and a series of publications. This approach, in my view, has led us to The Work of Derivative Scholarship in the Age of Professional Reproduction.
But how can one be a humanist and, simultaneously, fully model oneself after someone else, instead of following one’s own inclinations and intuitions? What a miserable existence lives the humanist who believes that they have to sacrifice their own freedom of thought to appease the whims of the job market, a dissertation committee, or their advisor. It goes without saying that one should be mindful of all these factors, and that structures of power, to not even mention the desire to get a visa or a green card, may influence someone’s choices. But why should one be in this profession—with its dire career prospects, meager salaries, and high demands on one’s own time—if not at least for a good part to take advantage of the freedom that being a humanist entails? Freedom in this context also means choosing one’s subject of study because it is meaningful to one’s life, not because it is prescribed by someone else.
Robert’s profile, in my view, is a testament to the freedom of the humanist. A couple of weeks ago, Robert and I were talking over the phone. He shared that, while already at Stanford, he once received an offer from a very prestigious university in a metropolitan area. Robert told me he seriously considered the offer, until he realized that, under no circumstances, could he live in a labyrinth made of concrete, where nature becomes a distant mirage rather than the backdrop of his life.
With this choice, the author of Forests: The Shadow of Civilization and Gardens: An Essay on the Human Condition affirmed that his work was not separate from his persona, but in fact a constitutive part of it. Robert’s choice of staying in California, in his house surrounded by trees instead of skyscrapers, reflects his philosophical, literary, and aesthetic inclinations. Yes, not everyone has the luxury of choosing between Stanford and another equally prestigious institution. But he did have this choice, and it is for this reason that I regard this anecdote as exemplary of his life, without intending it to be a normative or prescriptive statement.
Nature does most of his deep thinking
Robert once told me that nature does most of his deep thinking. For those of you who know Robert personally, you’ll recognize this as a quintessentially Robert Harrisonesque statement. In the light of the anecdote I just shared, we can see how this statement emanates both from his intellect and his praxis – if Robert didn’t truly believe that nature does most of his deep thinking, he might have moved to that big city, enjoyed urban life, been closer to Italy, and so forth.
I greatly respect this coherence between the way one thinks, and the way one lives. Academia is rife with bad faith, filled with individuals who eloquently write about community, care, attention, or equity, yet behave in ways that starkly contradict their words. They remind me of the philosophers who, as Kierkegaard notes, build a beautiful palace and then choose to live in a miserable tent right next to it. But academia is also a place where one finds those who live in the intellectual palace they have constructed, and Robert Harrison is certainly one of them.
I first met Robert in February 2016, during my campus visit here before officially joining the DLCL. It’s been over eight years, and despite occasional moments of intellectual friction—which I believe are productive—Robert has never once failed to respond to an email, write a letter of recommendation, or engage seriously with my thinking without pulling any punches. Be it directly or indirectly, he taught me not to mystify nor obfuscate, but to promote legibility and clarity. He made me a thinker who is not afraid to look at the ordinary, rather than one who despises it. He encouraged me to go back to the things themselves, rather than being lured by the sirens of abstraction.
Mio caro Robert, miglior fabbro, we’ve been thinking together for eight years, and for all these reasons, I look forward to continuing our intellectual kinship for the next eight years and beyond.
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