Some medieval scholastic – I think it was John of Salisbury, but someone out there can correct me – famously said that we are able to see farther than those who came before us because we are perched on the shoulders of giants.
It is a wonderful image of intellectual growth as a cumulative process, profoundly dependent on the labors of our predecessors.
Think of what physics owes to Newton and Einstein, or music to Bach and Mozart. To ponder the great thoughts and deeds of our intellectual ancestors is to inoculate oneself against all manner of hubris and egocentrism.
I am fond of thinking in this way, for it helps create in me a much-needed habit of gratefulness, not only in academic matters, but in life generally.
When eating, I remind myself of all the farmers, millers, laborers, truckers and clerks -and, of course, vintners – who collaborated to put food on my table.
When using some modern contraption, like the computer on which I am now typing, I marvel at the accumulated ingenuity that pushes my meager thoughts into well-ordered electrons.
I imagine how dreadful life would be if I were left to my own powers of invention.
Loyola University New Orleans also rests upon the shoulders of giants. We do well from time to time to pause and take stock of how much we owe to those who have allowed us to see farther than we otherwise might.
Loyola’s “giants” have not always been seen as such by their contemporaries.
Some were larger-than-life figures, nationally or internationally prominent, well published, honored by their peers. Others toiled in relative obscurity.
Some have been faculty, some staff, others friends of Loyola who have supported us from without.
As I sit here I think of four Jesuits in the College of Arts and Sciences, all of whom have died since my coming to Loyola:
C.J. McNaspy, a quiet, self-effacing man who as editor of America magazine was among the first American Catholics to write seriously about the arts and culture.
Joseph Fichter, something of a curmudgeon at Loyola, but also a nationally prominent sociologist and uncompromising voice for racial equality and social justice at a time when many New Orleans Catholics were blind to, and complicit in, the evil of racism.
Emmett Bienvenu, who never completed a doctorate or published an article – and wouldn’t be hired on a bet by today’s Loyola – but who had an ineffable quality that endeared him to students, that made them love language and learning.
Youree Watson, who embodied the character of a true philosopher: eager to learn, free of ego and utterly committed to the good, the true and the beautiful.
Just recently we have mourned the death of Rosalee McReynolds, special collections librarian: physically a tiny woman – ostensibly an unlikely candidate for gianthood – possessed of a ravenous intellectual appetite, a quirky sensibility, a rapier wit, and a wonderful sense of the absurd. She was also a pioneer of women’s studies at Loyola and had a marvelous gift for deep friendships.
Both her work and her personality will leave a profound mark on our university for years to come.
Giants such as these have walked among us.
They may have been incognito, disguised as an irascible professor or as a quietly helpful administrative assistant.
Their contributions to Loyola may take the form of hundreds of published pages, or years of simple competence, or, mirabile dictu [wonderfully told], money!
The list could go on, but my point is a simple one.
When you take a book from a library shelf, or gain a new insight through a discussion or lecture, or experience the sense of family that bathes our campus, take a moment to recall that this college education of yours – a privilege enjoyed by only a minuscule fraction of the earth’s population – was borne to you, and bears you along, on the shoulders of giants. Enjoy the view.
Thomas Smith is associate dean of the College of Arts and Sciences.
