Death of the Princeton Renaissance Man

Once upon a time, very long ago, every educated man could read and write in Latin. He could name the stars and by them find his way home on a dark night, if necessary. He had read Virgil's poetry and Montaigne's essays. He played an instrument, or perhaps painted. He knew by name all the trees of the forest and could bisect an angle with a compass. Princeton might still shelter a few educated people of this type. But I have never met them.

No one is entirely sorry that they are gone, though. In the emergency room we are pleased that the hovering doctor has consecrated years solely to the study of what ails us. When we board an airplane we gladly entrust our lives to those specialized engineers who designed it. Indeed, intense specialization has created most of the luxuries that set the modern era apart from all others.

Specialization is above all useful in the sciences. Knowledge as narrow and keen as a laser mapped the human genome and sent humans to the moon. But our cell phones, computers and CAT scans, no matter useful and no matter how unfathomable to the untrained mind, have not brought humankind closer to answering basic questions about the universe.

Princeton, at least ostensibly, still hopes that its student will answer those questions. The University above all does not wish to become just a glorified technical school.

And so it pays its lying homage to the liberal arts ideal. With its STs, LAs and EMs, the administration has put a penny in the offering box and is satisfied that it has fulfilled its duty to birth well-rounded students.

While the idea may be noble, the system does not in fact broaden the scope of the Princeton student's world. In the place of the Renaissance man walks the meek engineering student. For her — we can be glad she is as likely she as he — differential calculus has replaced the trees and the stars. What her ELE classes have taught her, she knows and knows well. She dwells among the intellectual elite of America and will someday earn lots of money. She is irritated that her schedule includes Music 234: The Baroque. Bach is boring and the professor's injunction to feel the emotion in the music mystifies her. Perhaps, if she is motivated, she will learn a little, and for the rest of her life may appreciate musicians a little more. More than likely, however, she will swallow the professor's words, take the exam, and move on toward her degree.

Students resent the imposition into their freedom to choose what they like, particularly if they have already decided upon a career. They think the distribution requirements are a stumbling block on the otherwise clear path to money, maybe a little fame and a nice life.

And they are right.

As the system stands, it does nothing but impede the ambitious. Realizing this, the administration allows students to obey the letter of the law while dodging its spirit. Guts proliferate. I myself slipped out of taking a lab course here with a Freshman seminar and a little AP credit.

The administration ought to acknowledge the actual situation. The distribution requirements do not make well-rounded intellectuals but specialists frustrated with a collection of useless knowledge.

If Princeton wishes to fight the spirit of the age and hold onto the ideal of the Renaissance Man, it must insist do something a little more drastic, perhaps establish a core curriculum. If it does not, it should abandon the General Education Requirements for what they are: lip-service to the liberal arts.