A paper presents the result of study. It represents what the writer has learned through deliberate action, often within a well-defined period of time. Here, “study” may refer merely to a few weeks of an undergraduate class or a reasearch project spanning several years. The paper will not always specify the method by which the results were achieved, but the reader should be able to imagine the means by which they would arrive at them themselves. In some cases, the paper will include a detailed methodology that, ideally, puts the reader in a position to replicate the result. In other cases, the paper will be based solely on the reading and thinking that the writer has done. Do notice, however, that even such a “scholarly” or “theoretical” paper, by virtue of its references, allows the reader to “replicate” the “study” that was done. The reader can consult the same texts and give them the same careful consideration. In all cases, the intended reader of a paper is a peer, an intellectual equal, someone who is qualified to tell the writer that they are wrong. A paper opens the results of the writer’s study to the criticism of other knowledgeable people.

Note: Three weeks ago, I decided I would write a paragraph every morning in a well–composed moment: In twenty-seven minutes, I would write at least six sentences and at most two-hundred words that say one thing and support, elaborate, or defend it. This morning, I appear to have hit my stride, producing exactly 200 words that the WordPress text-editor helpfully tells me will take one minute to read. This is nice to see, since I often tell my authors and students that a paragraph represents one minute of your reader’s attention. I also tell them it “normally” fills about half a page, and it struck me, looking at the character count, that 1168 is just over half of the 2275 characters that my institution, the Copenhagen Business School, defines as the “normal page” for purposes of examination. It’s comforting to know that my rules of thumb comply with the law of the land.

Study is the deliberate pursuit of learning. Sometimes it is so deliberate that it deserves an article; we talk about “the study” we have done or what “a study” has shown. (If you thought I meant something else by “article”, you’re also right, but you’ll have to wait for tomorrow’s post.) When a student “studies” something it is often simply a matter of attending a class, reading the required texts, and doing the assigned writing. A scholar studies something through a more formal process of formulating a research question framed by theory and answering it on the basis of methodically collected data. Sometimes, to be sure, students are asked to engage in scholarly work — when they write research papers, for example — but their results are often not novel enough to make a “contribution” to the discipline. To learn a method, they discover for themselves what they could have read in a book. Scholars, by contrast, are motivated to conduct studies because they have questions that are not answered in the literature. Indeed, they study the subject on behalf of their peers in the discipline and intend to share their findings with them.

A student learns what is known. What is sometimes called “academic” knowledge consists of everything that can be learned deliberately, all the truth (and even a little wisdom) that can be “passed on” through instruction. As a rough, imperfect approximation we can say that the university curriculum consists of what can be learned by reading a book and demonstrated by writing a paper. But there are of course trades that require instruction in workshops and, accordingly, more practical forms of examination. For this reason we sometimes distinguish between the student and the apprentice. But academic competence also includes a number of “craft skills” that are more easily presented and examined orally, or through exercise and observation. It might, then, be more accurate to define a student as someone who can learn something “in a class” — a group of people you shout at, as the Romans put it. That is, a student learns things that can be communicated by people who already know them to people who don’t. The student, ideally, pays attention.

If its object were scientific and philosophical discovery, I do not see why a University should have students.

John Henry Newman (1852)

Schools disseminate what is known. They are sites of the distribution, not the production, of knowledge. They are organs of the propagation of knowledge, or, if you will, propaganda organizations for science. In their classrooms, the same messages are tirelessly repeated; in their laboratories, the same experiments are endlessly replicated. Only rarely is something new discovered in these activities, except by the student who had been innocent of an idea. They maintain our knowledge; they are the institutions of our intuitions. It is true that universities, and especially research universities, are more than just schools, but the important thing is that they are also schools; they must devote some of their energies to reproducing the past. Some time ago, it was decided that, at a certain level, it was best to have those who are working at the frontiers of knowledge carry out this transmission, and there is, to my mind, a particular wisdom in this arrangement. Since there can be no genuine learning without curiosity, it is proper that students are exposed to teachers who have conditions under which to satisfy theirs. “Whatever satisfies the soul is truth,” said Whitman. In that sense, schools keep our souls functioning properly; they are conservatories of the spirit.

A scholar knows what is known by others. Scientists make discoveries, and researchers gather information, but scholars “keep the books”; they maintain an awareness of all the research that has been and is being done on a subject. Scholars can be scientists or researchers too, of course, but we should keep their functions and responsibilities distinct. The scholar’s job is to review the literature and keep it up-to-date. On issues that are being debated, the scholar must have an understanding of both sides of the question and must be able to represent each fairly. The scholar must also have a good sense of the history of the question and the interests that drive our inquiries into them. This awareness can sometimes make it difficult for the scholar to make up their own mind. But, ideally, the scholar will also take a postion. After all, the scholar knows what is known. Scholars hold their beliefs within a totality of beliefs held by other knowledgeable people. With all that knowledge, it would be distressing if the scholar didn’t know what to believe! How would you or I decide?