Isaac Asimov Laments the “Cult of Ignorance” in the United States (1980)

Rochester Insti­tute of Tech­nol­o­gy, via Wiki­me­dia Com­mons

In 1980, sci­en­tist and writer Isaac Asi­mov argued in an essay that “there is a cult of igno­rance in the Unit­ed States, and there always has been.” That year, the Repub­li­can Par­ty stood at the dawn of the Rea­gan Rev­o­lu­tion, which ini­ti­at­ed a decades-long con­ser­v­a­tive groundswell. Polit­i­cal strate­gist Steve Schmidt (who has been regret­ful about choos­ing Sarah Palin as John McCain’s run­ning mate in 2008) once point­ed to what he called “intel­lec­tu­al rot” as a pri­ma­ry cul­prit, and a cult-like devo­tion to irra­tional­i­ty among a cer­tain seg­ment of the elec­torate.

It’s a famil­iar con­tention. There have been cri­tiques of Amer­i­can anti-intel­lec­tu­al­ism since the country’s found­ing, though whether or not that phe­nom­e­non has inten­si­fied, as Susan Jaco­by alleged in The Age of Amer­i­can Unrea­son, may be a sub­ject of debate. Not all of the unrea­son is par­ti­san, as fail­ures to chal­lenge human- and AI-gen­er­at­ed mis­in­for­ma­tion in polit­i­cal news sources and social media out­lets over recent years have shown. But “the strain of anti-intel­lec­tu­al­ism,” writes Asi­mov, “has been a con­stant thread wind­ing its way through our polit­i­cal and cul­tur­al life, nur­tured by the false notion that democ­ra­cy means that ‘my igno­rance is just as good as your knowl­edge.’”

Asimov’s pri­ma­ry exam­ples hap­pen to come from the polit­i­cal world. How­ev­er, he doesn’t name con­tem­po­rary names but reach­es back to take a swipe at Eisen­how­er (“who invent­ed a ver­sion of the Eng­lish lan­guage that was all his own”) and George Wal­lace. Par­tic­u­lar­ly inter­est­ing is Asimov’s take on the “slo­gan on the part of the obscu­ran­tists: ‘Don’t trust the experts!’” This lan­guage, along with charges of “elit­ism,” Asi­mov wry­ly notes, is so often used by peo­ple who are them­selves experts and elites, “feel­ing guilty about hav­ing gone to school.” So many of the Amer­i­can polit­i­cal class’ wounds are self-inflict­ed, he sug­gests, but that’s because they are behold­en to a large­ly igno­rant elec­torate:

To be sure, the aver­age Amer­i­can can sign his name more or less leg­i­bly, and can make out the sports headlines—but how many nonelit­ist Amer­i­cans can, with­out undue dif­fi­cul­ty, read as many as a thou­sand con­sec­u­tive words of small print, some of which may be tri­syl­lab­ic?

Asimov’s exam­ples are less than con­vinc­ing: road signs “steadi­ly being replaced by lit­tle pic­tures to make them inter­na­tion­al­ly leg­i­ble” has more to do with lin­guis­tic diver­si­ty than illit­er­a­cy, and accus­ing tele­vi­sion com­mer­cials of speak­ing their mes­sages out loud instead of using print­ed text on the screen seems to fun­da­men­tal­ly mis­un­der­stand the nature of the medi­um. Jaco­by in her book-length study of the prob­lem looks at edu­ca­tion­al pol­i­cy in the Unit­ed States, and the resis­tance to nation­al stan­dards that vir­tu­al­ly ensures wide­spread pock­ets of igno­rance all over the coun­try. Asimov’s very short, pithy essay has nei­ther the space nor the incli­na­tion to con­duct such analy­sis.

Instead he is con­cerned with atti­tudes. Not only are many Amer­i­cans bad­ly edu­cat­ed, he writes, but the broad igno­rance of the pop­u­la­tion in mat­ters of “sci­ence… math­e­mat­ics… eco­nom­ics… for­eign lan­guages…” has as much to do with Amer­i­cans’ unwill­ing­ness to read as their inabil­i­ty.

There are 200 mil­lion Amer­i­cans who have inhab­it­ed school­rooms at some time in their lives and who will admit that they know how to read… but most decent peri­od­i­cals believe they are doing amaz­ing­ly well if they have cir­cu­la­tion of half a mil­lion. It may be that only 1 per cent—or less—of Amer­i­cans make a stab at exer­cis­ing their right to know. And if they try to do any­thing on that basis they are quite like­ly to be accused of being elit­ists.

One might in some respects charge Asi­mov him­self of elit­ism when he con­cludes, “We can all be mem­bers of the intel­lec­tu­al elite.” Such a blithe­ly opti­mistic state­ment ignores the ways in which eco­nom­ic elites active­ly manip­u­late edu­ca­tion pol­i­cy to suit their inter­ests, crip­ple edu­ca­tion fund­ing, and oppose efforts at free or low cost high­er edu­ca­tion. Many efforts at spread­ing knowledge—like the Chau­tauquas of the ear­ly 20th cen­tu­ry, the edu­ca­tion­al radio pro­grams of the 40s and 50s, and the pub­lic tele­vi­sion rev­o­lu­tion of the 70s and 80s—have been ad hoc and near­ly always imper­iled by fund­ing crises and the designs of prof­i­teers.

Nonethe­less, the wide­spread (though hard­ly uni­ver­sal) avail­abil­i­ty of free resources on the inter­net has made self-edu­ca­tion a real­i­ty for many peo­ple, and cer­tain­ly for most Amer­i­cans. But per­haps not even Isaac Asi­mov could have fore­seen the bit­ter polar­iza­tion and dis­in­for­ma­tion cam­paigns that tech­nol­o­gy has also enabled. Need­less to say, “A Cult of Igno­rance” was not one of Asimov’s most pop­u­lar pieces of writ­ing. First pub­lished on Jan­u­ary 21, 1980 in Newsweek, the short essay has nev­er been reprint­ed in any of Asimov’s col­lec­tions.

Note: An ear­li­er ver­sion of this post appeared on our site in 2016.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Isaac Asi­mov Reviews George Orwell’s Nine­teen Eighty-Four and Calls It “Not Sci­ence Fic­tion, But a Dis­tort­ed Nos­tal­gia for a Past that Nev­er Was”

Isaac Asi­mov Pre­dicts the Future on The David Let­ter­man Show (1980)

Isaac Asi­mov on How Libraries Can Rad­i­cal­ly Change Your Life (1971)

Isaac Asi­mov Pre­dicts in 1964 What the World Will Look Like in 2014

Josh Jones is a writer and musi­cian based in Durham, NC. 

Harvard’s 1869 Entrance Exam: Could You Answer Tough Questions About Latin, Greek, Ancient History, Plane Geometry & More

In 2025, Har­vard once again began ask­ing appli­cants to sub­mit an SAT or ACT score. This was a rever­sal of the no-test-nec­es­sary pol­i­cy that it and quite a few oth­er Amer­i­can col­leges and uni­ver­si­ties adopt­ed dur­ing the COVID-19 pan­dem­ic. To some observers of high­er edu­ca­tion, the dis­ap­pear­ance of the stan­dard­ized-test require­ment came as a shock, though in a sense, it was­n’t with­out prece­dent. Until the mid-nine­teen-tens, Har­vard had appli­cants take its own entrance exam, since no stan­dard­ized test exist­ed. One exam­ple from 1869, which you can see here, eval­u­at­ed stu­dents on their pro­fi­cien­cy in Latin, Greek, his­to­ry and geog­ra­phy, arith­metic, alge­bra, and plane geom­e­try.

The idea was­n’t so much to eval­u­ate the test-tak­er’s rea­son­ing abil­i­ties as to make sure he’d already under­gone the expect­ed edu­ca­tion for his class. Even so, as the New York Times’ Ali­son Leigh Cow­an notes, “col­leges occa­sion­al­ly allowed prospects to cor­rect defi­cien­cies as a con­di­tion of admis­sion.”

This reflects the very dif­fer­ent role high­er edu­ca­tion played in Amer­i­can life a cen­tu­ry and a half ago than it does today: back then, Har­vard admit­ted 185 out of 210 appli­cants; last year, it admit­ted 1,968 out of 57,435. As the coun­try indus­tri­al­ized, col­leges and uni­ver­si­ties changed accord­ing­ly: exist­ing ones grew, many new ones appeared, and a greater and greater per­cent­age of stu­dents sub­mit­ted to a process sur­round­ing ter­tiary edu­ca­tion that even­tu­al­ly came to seem machine-like itself.

To col­lege-apply­ing stu­dents today, the 1869 entrance exam may not look entire­ly unfa­mil­iar, at least to the extent that it asks ques­tions about math­e­mat­ics. Chances are, how­ev­er, that no cur­rent Har­vard hope­ful, no mat­ter how intel­li­gent, could actu­al­ly pass the test, giv­en the weight it places on clas­si­cal lan­guages. Through­out the nine­teenth cen­tu­ry and up until World War I, all young gen­tle­men got an edu­ca­tion in Latin and ancient Greek. But when both start­ed to van­ish from col­lege-admis­sions exams, espe­cial­ly after the SAT grew dom­i­nant in the nine­teen-for­ties, so did the imme­di­ate incen­tive to learn them. Reflect though that does the exi­gen­cies of a rapid­ly chang­ing tech­no­log­i­cal soci­ety, it also makes one won­der how much some­one with no grasp of Latin or Greek real­ly under­stands Eng­lish: a ques­tion to which the col­lege stu­dents of recent decades pro­vide dispir­it­ing answers.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Har­vard Lets You Take 133 Free Online Cours­es: Explore Cours­es on Jus­tice, Amer­i­can Gov­ern­ment, Lit­er­a­ture, Reli­gion, Comp­Sci & More

This Is What an 1869 MIT Entrance Exam Looks Like: Could You Have Passed the Test?

Can You Pass This Test Orig­i­nal­ly Giv­en to 8th Graders Liv­ing in Ken­tucky in 1912?

W.H. Auden’s 1941 Syl­labus Asked Stu­dents to Read 32 Great Lit­er­ary Works, Total­ing 6,000 Pages

Teacher Calls Jacques Derrida’s Col­lege Admis­sion Essay on Shake­speare “Quite Incom­pre­hen­si­ble” (1951)

Carl Sagan’s Syl­labus & Final Exam for His Course on Crit­i­cal Think­ing (Cor­nell, 1986)

Based in Seoul, Col­in Marshall writes and broad­casts on cities, lan­guage, and cul­ture. He’s the author of the newslet­ter Books on Cities as well as the books 한국 요약 금지 (No Sum­ma­riz­ing Korea) and Kore­an Newtro. Fol­low him on the social net­work for­mer­ly known as Twit­ter at @colinmarshall.

The Largest Bookshelf Tour Ever Filmed: Inside a Classicist’s 20,000-Volume Library

If you grew up in the last few gen­er­a­tions, chances are you did­n’t get much of an edu­ca­tion, if any, in Latin or ancient Greek. One long-made argu­ment for phas­ing them out of cur­ric­u­la in Eng­lish-speak­ing coun­tries holds that room must be made for Span­ish, Man­darin, and oth­er lan­guages actu­al­ly used at scale in the mod­ern world. Nowa­days, when even those class­es face the pres­sure of extinc­tion, advo­ca­cy for clas­si­cal lan­guages exudes an ever stronger con­trar­i­an appeal. “Dead” though they may be, they also live on through not just the Romance lan­guages, but also the mighty hege­mon known as Eng­lish. Indeed, it makes sense to ask whether an Anglo­phone with­out knowl­edge of Latin or Greek tru­ly under­stands his own native tongue.

Nor, accord­ing to clas­si­cist David But­ter­field, can one learn Latin with­out hav­ing any Greek. Get­ting a han­dle on both of those lan­guages and their sur­viv­ing body of texts isn’t just the work of a life­time; it also fills a house, as evi­denced by the two-and-a-half-hour video tour of But­ter­field­’s per­son­al library above. (The sub­se­quent two hours con­tain But­ter­field­’s intro­duc­tions to a selec­tion of par­tic­u­lar vol­umes from his many shelves.) Youtu­ber Tim­o­thy Ken­ny has pre­vi­ous­ly uploaded quite a few such videos on the col­lec­tions of seri­ous bib­lio­philes, but this one he describes as the largest ever attempt­ed, includ­ing the com­plete Loeb Clas­si­cal Library, I Tat­ti Renais­sance Library, and Pauly-Wis­sowa ency­clo­pe­dias.

Yet accord­ing to But­ter­field him­self, a young man by the stan­dards of his pro­fes­sion and spe­cial­ty, he’s still got a lot of col­lect­ing to do. He’s only about 80 per­cent of the way to a full set of Oxford Uni­ver­si­ty Press’ Very Short Intro­duc­tions, a series through which I’ve been grad­u­al­ly mak­ing my own way in recent years. Hav­ing found that its books offer “a real­ly good view of what­ev­er the top­ic or per­son is,” he decid­ed to “col­lect all the vol­umes that inter­est­ed me. And that emerged to be more than I thought, because I am inter­est­ed in almost every­thing.” But with all of us, no mat­ter how broad­ly curi­ous, some of his inter­ests are stronger than oth­ers, as one might expect from a man with the patience to amass a great amount of man­u­als for writ­ing Greek and Latin prose and verse made for school­boys (and, often, con­tain­ing their doo­dles).

After spend­ing a cou­ple of decades at Cam­bridge, But­ter­field crossed the Atlantic to go from one of the old­est insti­tu­tions of high­er edu­ca­tion to one of the very newest. He’s now Provost of and Pro­fes­sor of Latin at Ral­ston Col­lege in Savan­nah, Geor­gia, which received its first cohort of stu­dents in 2022. With its mas­ter’s degree pro­gram close­ly focused on ancient, medieval and mod­ern lit­er­a­ture and art con­sid­ered foun­da­tion­al to West­ern civ­i­liza­tion, it seems like the kind of insti­tu­tion designed to attract some­one like But­ter­field, who was already win­ning prizes for his library in or short­ly after his col­lege days. “I can’t see myself relax­ing until I have accu­mu­lat­ed around 10,000 books,” he said in a 2008 inter­view. His home, as cap­tured in Ken­ny’s video, now con­tains dou­ble that amount, but the thu­mos clear­ly has­n’t desert­ed him just yet.

Relat­ed con­tent:

Watch Umber­to Eco Walk Through His Immense Pri­vate Library: It Goes On, and On, and On!

Jorge Luis Borges Selects 74 Books for Your Per­son­al Library

Take a Vir­tu­al Tour of Jane Austen’s Library

Dis­cov­er the 1126 Books in John Cage’s Per­son­al Library: Fou­cault, Joyce, Wittgen­stein, Vir­ginia Woolf, Buck­min­ster Fuller & More

The 321 Books in David Fos­ter Wallace’s Per­son­al Library: From Blood Merid­i­an to Con­fes­sions of an Unlike­ly Body­builder

Why Learn Latin?: 5 Videos Make a Com­pelling Case That the “Dead Lan­guage” Is an “Eter­nal Lan­guage”

Based in Seoul, Col­in Marshall writes and broad­casts on cities, lan­guage, and cul­ture. He’s the author of the newslet­ter Books on Cities as well as the books 한국 요약 금지 (No Sum­ma­riz­ing Korea) and Kore­an Newtro. Fol­low him on the social net­work for­mer­ly known as Twit­ter at @colinmarshall.

The Forgotten Moment When Superman Fought Prejudice in America Instead of Villains (1950)

superman-all-american

It makes sense that Super­man would take a tol­er­ant view of immi­grants and oth­er minori­ties, giv­en that he him­self arrived on Earth as a refugee from the plan­et Kryp­ton.

The Man of Steel may strike you as an unlike­ly mouth­piece for pro­gres­sive ideals, but 1950 found him on a book cov­er, above, engaged in con­ver­sa­tion with a small crowd of most­ly white boys:

“…and remem­ber, boys and girls, your school – like our coun­try – is made up of Amer­i­cans of many dif­fer­ent races, reli­gions and nation­al ori­gins, so … If YOU hear any­body talk against a school­mate or any­one else because of his reli­gion, race or nation­al ori­gin – don’t wait: tell him THAT KIND OF TALK IS UN-AMERICAN. HELP KEEP YOUR SCHOOL ALL-AMERICAN!”

In oth­er words, cit­i­zens must steel them­selves to take action, because you can’t always count on a super­hero to show up and make things right.

The cheap paper jack­et, above, was dis­trib­uted to school chil­dren by the Insti­tute For Amer­i­can Democ­ra­cy, an off­shoot of the New York-based Anti-Defama­tion League.

Mean­while, a full col­or ver­sion of the 66-year-old illus­tra­tion has been mak­ing the rounds on social media. Let us con­sid­er it a place­hold­er. Even­tu­al­ly some­one will sure­ly take it back to the draw­ing board to add more girls, chil­dren with dis­abil­i­ties, and chil­dren of col­or.

superman-all-american-color

Note: An ear­li­er ver­sion of this post appeared on our site in 2017.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

1950s Bat­man Car­toon Tells Kids: “Don’t Believe Those Crack­pot Lies About Peo­ple Who Wor­ship Dif­fer­ent­ly”

Read Mar­tin Luther King and The Mont­gomery Sto­ry: The Influ­en­tial 1957 Civ­il Rights Com­ic Book

Dr. Seuss Draws Anti-Japan­ese Car­toons Dur­ing WWII, Then Atones with Hor­ton Hears a Who!

The Orig­i­nal 1940s Super­man Car­toon: Watch 17 Clas­sic Episodes Free Online

Ayun Hal­l­i­day is an author, illus­tra­tor, the­ater mak­er in NYC.

Chuck Jones’ The Dot and the Line Celebrates Geometry & Hard Work: An Oscar-Winning Animation (1965)

The ani­mat­ed short above, The Dot and the Line, direct­ed by the great Chuck Jones and nar­rat­ed by Eng­lish actor Robert Mor­ley, won an Oscar in 19656 for Best Ani­mat­ed Short Film. Based on a book writ­ten by Nor­ton Juster, “The Dot and the Line” tells the sto­ry of a romance between two geo­met­ric shapes—taking the arche­typ­al nar­ra­tive tra­jec­to­ry of boy meets girl, los­es girl, wins girl in the end (find­ing him­self along the way) and inject­ing it with some fas­ci­nat­ing social com­men­tary that still res­onates almost fifty years lat­er. One way of watch­ing “The Dot and the Line” is as a “tri­umph of the nerd” sto­ry, where an anx­ious square (as in “uncool”) Line has to com­pete with a hip­ster beat­nik Squig­gle of a rival for the affec­tions of a flighty Dot.

The Line begins the film “stiff as a stick… dull, con­ven­tion­al and repressed” (as his love inter­est says of him) in con­trast to the groovy Squig­gle and his groovy bebop sound­track. With the pos­si­ble sug­ges­tion that this love trans­gress­es mid-cen­tu­ry racial bound­aries, the Line’s friends dis­ap­prove and tell him to give it up, since “they all look alike any­way.” But the Line per­sists in his fol­ly, indulging in some Wal­ter Mit­ty-like rever­ies of hero­ic endeav­ors that might win over his Dot. Final­ly, using “great self-con­trol,” he man­ages to bend him­self into an angle, then anoth­er, then a series of sim­ple, then very com­plex, shapes, becom­ing, we might assume, some kind of math­e­mat­i­cal wiz. After refin­ing his tal­ents alone, he goes off to show them to Dot, who is “over­whelmed” and delight­ed and who “gig­gles like a school­girl.”

Here the sub­text of the nerd-gets-the-girl sto­ry­line man­i­fests a fair­ly con­ser­v­a­tive cri­tique of the “anar­chy” of the Squig­gle, whom the Dot comes to see as “undis­ci­plined, grace­less, coarse” and oth­er unflat­ter­ing adjec­tives while the line—who pro­claimed to him­self ear­li­er that “free­dom is not a license for chaos”—is “daz­zling, clever, mys­te­ri­ous, ver­sa­tile, light, elo­quent, pro­found, enig­mat­ic, com­plex, and com­pelling.” I can almost imag­ine that George Will had a hand in the writ­ing, which is to say that it’s enor­mous­ly clever, and enor­mous­ly invest­ed in the val­ues of self-con­trol, hard work, and dis­ci­pline, and dis­trust­ful of spon­tane­ity, free play, and gen­er­al groovi­ness. At the end of the film, our Dot and Line go off to live “if not hap­pi­ly ever after, at least rea­son­ably so” in some cozy sub­urb, no doubt. The moral of the sto­ry? “To the vec­tor belong the spoils.”

If you would like to sup­port the mis­sion of Open Cul­ture, con­sid­er mak­ing a dona­tion to our site. It’s hard to rely 100% on ads, and your con­tri­bu­tions will help us con­tin­ue pro­vid­ing the best free cul­tur­al and edu­ca­tion­al mate­ri­als to learn­ers every­where. You can con­tribute through Pay­Pal, Patre­on, and Ven­mo (@openculture). Thanks!

Relat­ed Con­tent 

Carl Sagan Explains Evo­lu­tion in an 8‑Minute Ani­ma­tion

Watch “Geom­e­try of Cir­cles,” the Abstract Sesame Street Ani­ma­tion Scored by Philip Glass (1979)

Jour­ney to the Cen­ter of a Tri­an­gle: Watch the 1977 Dig­i­tal Ani­ma­tion That Demys­ti­fies Geom­e­try

Josh Jones is a writer and musi­cian based in Durham, NC. 

Can Genius Be Taught? The Polgár Sisters and the Experiment That Put the Question to the Test

As any new par­ent soon finds out, there exists a robust mar­ket for prod­ucts, ser­vices, and media that promise to boost a child’s intel­li­gence. Some of these offer­ings come as close as legal­ly pos­si­ble to hold­ing out the promise of putting any tot on the path to genius, brazen­ly beg­ging the ques­tion of whether it’s pos­si­ble to raise a genius in the first place. Still, the efforts par­ents have delib­er­ate­ly made in that direc­tion have occa­sion­al­ly pro­duced notable results, from epochal fig­ures like Mozart or John Stu­art Mill to the promis­ing-math­e­mati­cian-turned-street­car-trans­fer-obsessed-recluse William Sidis. More recent­ly came the Pol­gár sis­ters, who were suc­cess­ful­ly raised to become some of the great­est female chess play­ers in his­to­ry.

Hav­ing stud­ied the nature of intel­li­gence at uni­ver­si­ty, their father Lás­zló got it in his head that, since most genius­es start­ed learn­ing their sub­jects inten­sive­ly and ear­ly, par­ents could cul­ti­vate genius-lev­el per­for­mance in their chil­dren by direct­ing that learn­ing process them­selves. He sought out a wife both intel­lec­tu­al­ly promis­ing and will­ing to devote her­self to test­ing this hypoth­e­sis. Togeth­er they went on to father three daugh­ters, putting them through a rig­or­ous, cus­tom-made edu­ca­tion ori­ent­ed toward chess mas­tery. Chess became the pro­jec­t’s cen­tral sub­ject in large part because of its sheer objec­tiv­i­ty, all the bet­ter for Lás­zló Pol­gár to mea­sure the results of this domes­tic exper­i­ment.

Nor could it have hurt, giv­en the impor­tance of retain­ing the inter­est of chil­dren, that chess was a game — and one with evoca­tive toy-like pieces — that offers imme­di­ate feed­back and feel­ings of accom­plish­ment. For his daugh­ters, Pol­gár has empha­sized, learn­ing involved none of the drudgery and busy­work of school. “A child does not like only play: for them it is also enjoy­able to acquire infor­ma­tion and solve prob­lems,” he writes in his book Raise a Genius! “A child’s work can also be enjoy­able; so can learn­ing, if it is suf­fi­cient­ly moti­vat­ing, and if it means a con­stant sup­ply of prob­lems to solve that are appro­pri­ate for the lev­el of the child’s needs. A child does not need play sep­a­rate from work, but mean­ing­ful action.”

The proof of Pol­gár’s the­o­ries is in the pud­ding — or at any rate, in the rat­ings. All three of his daugh­ters became elite chess play­ers. Sofia, the mid­dle one, became the sixth-strongest female play­er in the world; Susan, the eldest, the top-ranked female play­er in the world; Judit, the youngest, the strongest female chess play­er of all time. This despite the fact that their father was an unex­cep­tion­al chess play­er, and their moth­er not a chess play­er at all. Some eager­ly take the sto­ry of the Pol­gár sis­ters as a vin­di­ca­tion of nur­ture over nature; oth­ers, sci­en­tif­ic researchers includ­ed, argue that it only shows that prac­tice is a nec­es­sary con­di­tion for this kind of genius, not a suf­fi­cient one. For my part, hav­ing kept an eye on a pair of infant twins while writ­ing this, I’d be hap­py if my own kids could just mas­ter hold­ing on to their bot­tles.

Relat­ed con­tent:

Learn How to Play Chess Online: Free Chess Lessons for Begin­ners, Inter­me­di­ate Play­ers & Beyond

Meet Alma Deutsch­er, the Clas­si­cal Music Prodi­gy: Watch Her Per­for­mances from Age 6 to 14

The Mag­ic of Chess: Kids Share Their Unin­hib­it­ed, Philo­soph­i­cal Insights about the Ben­e­fits of Chess

Hear the Pieces Mozart Com­posed When He Was Only 5 Years Old

Read an 18th-Cen­tu­ry Eye­wit­ness Account of 8‑Year-Old Mozart’s Extra­or­di­nary Musi­cal Skills

The Renewed Pop­u­lar­i­ty of Chess and The Queen’s Gam­bit: Pret­ty Much Pop Cul­ture Pod­cast Dis­cus­sion #78 with Chess Expert J. J. Lang

Based in Seoul, Col­in Marshall writes and broad­casts on cities, lan­guage, and cul­ture. He’s the author of the newslet­ter Books on Cities as well as the books 한국 요약 금지 (No Sum­ma­riz­ing Korea) and Kore­an Newtro. Fol­low him on the social net­work for­mer­ly known as Twit­ter at @colinmarshall.

The Ancient Tool Used in Japan to Strengthen Memory & Focus: The Abacus

William Gib­son famous­ly observed that the future is already here, it’s just not even­ly dis­trib­uted. That line is often thought to have been inspired by Japan, which was already pro­ject­ing a thor­ough­ly futur­is­tic image, at least in pop­u­lar cul­ture, by the time he made his debut with Neu­ro­mancer in 1984. But as any­one who’s spent enough time in the coun­try under­stands — albeit not with­out frus­tra­tion — even twen­ty-first-cen­tu­ry Japan remains in many ways a pre-dig­i­tal soci­ety. Many busi­ness­es only take cash, more than a few ser­vices require com­mu­ni­ca­tion by fax, and there’s no sub­sti­tute for a phys­i­cal han­ko seal on impor­tant doc­u­ments. Even so, it may come as a sur­prise to learn that Japan still uses aba­cus­es.

Or rather, Japan still uses aba­cus­es as edu­ca­tion­al tools: you won’t see many shop­keep­ers pull them out while ring­ing up your pur­chas­es, but if you glance in the win­dow of the right kind of pri­vate acad­e­my, you might well see young stu­dents furi­ous­ly per­form­ing cal­cu­la­tions the very old-fash­ioned way.

If they’re suf­fi­cient­ly advanced, as explained in the BBC video above, they won’t even have actu­al aba­cus­es; they’ll just move around beads pic­tured in their heads. (It brings to mind how Dustin Hoff­man’s savant in Rain Man explains his per­for­mance of seem­ing­ly impos­si­ble men­tal math: “I see it.”) Such inten­sive aba­cus edu­ca­tion was com­mon across north­east Asia in the mid-twen­ti­eth cen­tu­ry, when the arith­metic skills it cul­ti­vat­ed were impor­tant for both indi­vid­ual sur­vival and nation­al devel­op­ment.

It was that very devel­op­ment that tend­ed to push the aba­cus into obso­les­cence. When Korea, where I live, could afford elec­tron­ic cal­cu­la­tors, the pres­tige asso­ci­at­ed with aba­cus mas­tery dis­solved prac­ti­cal­ly overnight. Deter­mined Kore­an par­ents can still sign their chil­dren up for jupan class­es, much as Chi­nese par­ents might encour­age theirs to enter into suan­pan com­pe­ti­tions out of a sense of civ­i­liza­tion­al pride, but they have noth­ing like the sta­tus the soroban enjoys in Japan. That may be vin­di­cat­ed by neu­ro­sci­en­tif­ic research point­ing toward the ben­e­fits learn­ing the aba­cus can have on a devel­op­ing brain’s cog­ni­tive func­tions. As the BBC video explains, aba­cus train­ing enhances cog­ni­tive func­tion by sharp­en­ing con­cen­tra­tion, accel­er­at­ing infor­ma­tion pro­cess­ing, and strength­en­ing visu­al mem­o­ry, lead­ing to improved mem­o­ry and sus­tained focus. But as any enthu­si­ast of Japan­ese craft cul­ture knows, no mat­ter how much hard­er it may be to do things with ana­log tools, some­times it’s just more sat­is­fy­ing.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Free Online Math Cours­es

The Won­der­ful Wood­en Mar­ble Adding Machine

The Math­e­mat­ics Behind Origa­mi, the Ancient Japan­ese Art of Paper Fold­ing

Com­plex Math Made Sim­ple With Engag­ing Ani­ma­tions: Fouri­er Trans­form, Cal­cu­lus, Lin­ear Alge­bra, Neur­al Net­works & More

Japan­ese Musi­cians Turn Obso­lete Machines Into Musi­cal Instru­ments: Cath­ode Ray Tube TVs, Over­head Pro­jec­tors, Reel-to-Reel Tape Machines & More

Based in Seoul, Col­in Marshall writes and broad­casts on cities, lan­guage, and cul­ture. He’s the author of the newslet­ter Books on Cities as well as the books 한국 요약 금지 (No Sum­ma­riz­ing Korea) and Kore­an Newtro. Fol­low him on the social net­work for­mer­ly known as Twit­ter at @colinmarshall.

W.H. Auden’s 1941 Syllabus Asked Students to Read 32 Great Literary Works, Totaling 6,000 Pages

Whether willed, invol­un­tary, or a mix of both, the declin­ing lit­er­a­cy of col­lege stu­dents is by now so often lament­ed that reports of it should no longer come as a sur­prise. And yet, on some lev­el, they still do: Eng­lish majors in region­al Kansas uni­ver­si­ties find the open­ing to Bleak House vir­tu­al­ly unin­tel­li­gi­ble; even stu­dents at “high­ly selec­tive, elite col­leges” strug­gle to read, let alone com­pre­hend, books in their entire­ty. Things were dif­fer­ent in 1941, and very dif­fer­ent indeed if you hap­pened to be tak­ing Eng­lish 135 at the Uni­ver­si­ty of Michi­gan, a class titled “Fate and the Indi­vid­ual in Euro­pean Lit­er­a­ture.” The instruc­tor: a cer­tain W. H. Auden.

In his capac­i­ty as an edu­ca­tor, the poet threw down the gaunt­let of an “infa­mous­ly dif­fi­cult” syl­labus, as lit­er­ary aca­d­e­m­ic and YouTu­ber Adam Walk­er explains in his new video above, that “asked under­grad­u­ates to read about 6,000 pages of clas­sic lit­er­a­ture.”

Not that the course was out of touch with cur­rent events: in its his­tor­i­cal moment, “Nazi Ger­many had invad­ed the Sovi­et Union and expand­ed into East­ern Europe. Sys­tem­at­ic exter­mi­na­tion begins with mass shoot­ings, and the machin­ery of geno­cide is accel­er­at­ing. It’s no acci­dent that Auden takes an inter­est in fate and the indi­vid­ual in Euro­pean lit­er­a­ture” — a theme that, as he frames it, begins with Dante. After the entire­ty of The Divine Com­e­dy, Auden’s stu­dents had their free choice between Aeschy­lus’ Agamem­non or Sopho­cles’ Antigone.


From there, the required read­ing plunged into Horace’s Odes and Augustine’s Con­fes­sions, four Shake­speare plays, Pas­cal’s Pen­sées, Goethe’s Faust (but only Part I), and Dos­to­evsky’s The Broth­ers Kara­ma­zov, to name just a few texts. Not every­one would con­sid­er Dos­to­evsky Euro­pean, of course, but then, nobody would con­sid­er Her­man Melville Euro­pean, which for Auden was hard­ly a rea­son to leave Moby-Dick off the syl­labus. Walk­er describes that nov­el as rel­e­vant to the course’s themes of “obses­sion and cos­mic strug­gle,” evi­dent in all these works and their treat­ments of “pas­sion and his­tor­i­cal forces, and how indi­vid­u­als nav­i­gate those forces”: ideas that tran­scend nation­al and cul­tur­al bound­aries by def­i­n­i­tion. Whether they would come across to the kind of twen­ty-first-cen­tu­ry stu­dents who’d balk at being assigned even a full-length Auden poem is anoth­er ques­tion entire­ly.

View the syl­labus in a larg­er for­mat here.

Relat­ed con­tent:

W. H. Auden Recites His 1937 Poem “As I Walked Out One Evening”

Dis­cov­er Han­nah Arendt’s Syl­labus for Her 1974 Course on “Think­ing”

David Fos­ter Wallace’s 1994 Syl­labus: How to Teach Seri­ous Lit­er­a­ture with Light­weight Books

Don­ald Barthelme’s Syl­labus High­lights 81 Books Essen­tial for a Lit­er­ary Edu­ca­tion

Carl Sagan’s Syl­labus & Final Exam for His Course on Crit­i­cal Think­ing (Cor­nell, 1986)

Mar­shall McLuhan, W.H. Auden & Buck­min­ster Fuller Debate the Virtues of Mod­ern Tech­nol­o­gy & Media (1971)

Based in Seoul, Col­in Marshall writes and broad­casts on cities, lan­guage, and cul­ture. His projects include the Sub­stack newslet­ter Books on Cities and the book The State­less City: a Walk through 21st-Cen­tu­ry Los Ange­les. Fol­low him on the social net­work for­mer­ly known as Twit­ter at @colinmarshall.

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