The Veritas of Irony

"What struck me about Harvard," said Jedediah S. Purdy '97 in an interview last week with Fifteen Minutes, "was how many people were basically dissatisfied with their academic experience...and in many cases quite discontented with their Houses and basically with everything Harvard was supposed to be doing."

The notion that students might be somehow discontented at Harvard is not a particularly radical idea. Nor is it worthwhile to pursue the topic without refining such vague generalizations. Still, Purdy's remarks may be illuminating when placed in the broader context offered by his recent book, For Common Things: Irony, Trust and Commitment in America Today.

Purdy, 24, writes earnestly in For Common Things against a culture he sees as saturated with irony. "The point of irony," he writes in the opening pages, "is a quiet refusal to believe in the depth of relationships, the sincerity of motivation, or the truth of speech--especially earnest speech." For Purdy, our culture is entrenched in a Seinfeldian shtick, an "endless joke...not exactly at anyone's expense, but rather at the expense of the idea that anyone might take the whole affair seriously."

With the exception of an off-hand statement that irony is most pronounced among "media-savvy young people" who are well-educated at expensive schools, very little of the book is about Harvard. Rather, Purdy's project is much broader. The jadedly independent ironist, he argues, resists the urge to "identify strongly with any project, relationship, or aspiration" but at the same time hungers for a particular wholeness. And this is wholeness is only available through a renewed commitment to civic and political life.

To students at Harvard--and even to the author himself--the arguments at the core of For Common Things lend support to local community efforts like the living wage campaign. These projects are "earnest," "responsible" and "honest"--a direct affront to the ironic spirit.

But the type of irony I find most troublesome is not in the attitude exhibited by Harvard students towards particular political or social agendas. Rather, it is in the context that we seem to view our own world at Harvard. It is an ironic sentiment at the heart of our discontent with Harvard's academic and House life.

Purdy is correct in attributing a certain earnest motivation to those who are involved with grassroots organizations like the living wage campaign. But, in some sense, this is to be expected. In general, students who devote their time to student groups at Harvard do so earnestly and honestly. Whether I decide to direct a play, write for a publication or celebrate my cultural heritage, it is because I gain some intrinsic pleasure from the activity itself. I have, to use Purdy's words, identified with a project, relationship or aspiration. My extracurricular choice--whatever it might be--would rarely elicit accusations of false or selfish motives.

But in stark contrast to the anti-ironic stance in our exalted extracurricular realm, our views towards academic and House life are anything but earnest or genuine. As student groups and outside commitments have become the definitive standard by which to judge one's Harvard experience, academic pursuits have become marginalized. Many of us are more concerned with the practical value of a Harvard diploma than with our own personal intellectual development.

Consequently, we second-guess the motives of those who spend "too much" time on academics: Students who incessantly ask questions in lecture are brown-nosers, pre-meds who study on weekends are anal, gov-jocks who thrive on the Federalist papers are future political wannabe's. Academic earnestness is often meet with scathing criticisms of social climbing. The oft-repeated statement that "Harvard would be so much better if we didn't have classes" is a pithy reflection of our ironic attitude.

In our Houses, there is a noticeable chasm between those who sincerely share a sense of House community and those who bitterly remain on the outside. Those in the former group also happen to spend their time organizing House events or serving on House committees. These students are genuine in their House love because their House and extracurricular circles seamlessly coincide.

But for those on the outside--the ironists--there is a nagging skepticism of whether the idea of a House can work at all. In the face of randomization, and most recently, the reduction of blocking group sizes, Houses have become superficial mixing grounds before trotting off to a club meeting.

"The great fear of the ironist," writes Purdy, "is being caught out having staked a good part of his all on a false hope." In some sense, our earnestness for extracurricular achievement has sapped our zeal for academic and House life.

Devoting time to those activities and pursuits we have chosen is a safe bet. But at the same time, this makes it harder to embrace a House we did not choose or an academic course of study that, practically speaking, means little compared to the weight of a Harvard diploma. Ignoring these hopes completely--hopes which may or may not turn out to be false--signifies the ironist's triumph.

Richard S. Lee '01 is a social studies concentrator in Pforzheimer House. His column appears on alternate Wednesdays.