Work and meaning

There is life outside of academia

Fortepan / Róna Annamária

I. A postcard from my biology teacher

When I was young, I had a biology teacher who was a great mentor to me. Prior to his untimely death from illness, he sent me a postcard advising me to do something meaningful with my life before time runs out. His message made me realize that after school, I would be trading a significant portion of my lifespan for work, without knowing how much time—particularly in terms of physical and mental well-being—would remain once, if ever, I hit financial independence. I concluded from his life’s trajectory that I should choose a profession that isn’t merely a tool for income, leisure, or a comfortable retirement, but one that is meaningful in itself. Work, I was certain, shouldn’t be treated as a mere chore one must endure to reach a good life, but rather as an arena for a deep life itself.

II. The intellectualistic fallacy

The rationalist I was then (and basically still am to this day) merged the existential takeaway from my biology teacher’s postcard with a premise that, in retrospect, seems at best endearingly immature: that the desired blend of work and meaning would only be possible through intellectual labor, if not to say, the quest for truth. Didier Eribon delightfully described such a naive attitude in his autobiography, Retour à Reims:

„I only found out much later that some intellectuals are deeply committed to craftsmanship. A love of books, writing, and reading doesn’t rule out practical activities. (...) What I had long perceived as a fundamental, class-based opposition (books vs. manual labor) had been, at best, constitutive only for myself and my own history. I had a similar experience with sports.“

It goes without saying that non-intellectual work can be deeply fulfilling—whether by adding broader value to particular interests, by being helpful to others, or simply by achieving mastery. Often, it will even be more meaningful than bullshit jobs and busywork in the knowledge sector.

Furthermore, when you consider how much digital technology has blurred the line between knowledge work and leisure, the old 9-to-5 grind almost feels like a refreshingly honest and healthier alternative. This was, however, already true in the pre-digital past, though in a less externally determined way: Those who read and write for a living often lose the ability to read a new book out of pure joy, instead of checking if it’s worth a review, if it fits a study, or if it contains an idea that could be turned into something.

When success (a factor I chose to ignore in my youthful naivety) enters the equation, the relationship between intellectual work and a sense of purpose becomes even more suspect. That’s because neither pure professional achievement and its accompanying status nor fringe self-expression, but rather “successful self-actualization,“ has become a hallmark of the late-modern middle-class career, as the sociologist Andreas Reckwitz aptly observed. This is why managers seek out sense-making stories—of innovation, diversity, or sustainability—while intellectuals pursue prestigious professorships, lucrative keynote speeches, and bestselling books. The great alignment of work and meaning, however, intensifies the instrumental bias that was always inherent in the professionalization of the intellectual: Which topics could become relevant? Which projects promise impact? What is the next big thing?

Which brings us to the workplace I finally ended up in: the university. Nowhere is it more evident that intellectual pursuits might provide meaning, but they certainly don’t guarantee it. Who would argue that the production of unread papers, grant acquisition, and administration represent a meaningful intellectual activity? Who would want to claim that “the aging Foucault-inspired monoculture” (David Brooks) provides a thought-provoking intellectual environment?

The more I think about it, the more I’m convinced that academic work can only be experienced as meaningful if three conditions are in place. They correspond to the core components of general well-being in self-determination theory (SDT), namely autonomy, mastery, and belonging. Autonomy: independent research that doesn’t require adjustments to meet any donors’ expectations. Mastery: enough time for deep immersion, detours, and thorough thinking. Belonging: a conversational context of shared references and value.

III. Life

What would I write on a postcard to a student if I were to send one like the one my biology teacher wrote me decades ago? Nothing else, of course, other than what he wrote to me. If the recipient, however, were inclined to draw the same intellectualist conclusion that I did as a young man, I’d add that a) knowledge work in general and academic work in particular is not only far from being the only meaningful career path but that b) further conditions must be met for this typle of work to be actually meaningful, and that c) in the current academic landscape these conditions are only granted to a happy few who manage to carve out a niche for themselves.

Then again, maybe that kind of postcard doesn’t even need to be written today. The reality that thinkers on the periphery of the academic world, software engineers sharing their experiences, or podcasts featuring culinary pros so often prove more intellectually engaging than browsing the latest cultural studies journals makes me suspect that some of the smartest young people are already seeking both meaning and mental spark outside of academia.

The humanities should pay close attention to them.