A Scholar's Lament

I’ve always admired tradespeople. Actually, admired is not the word—rather I’ve always envied tradespeople. I wish that I had that kind of talent, to make something out of raw material, to be useful to others. It seems magical to me, the way a potter can take a misshapen lump of clay and, given a few days, turn it into a beautiful vase. They make it look easy, but my one attempt ended up with me covered in muck and nothing to show for my efforts. What I wouldn’t give to be free of my books and papers for a day and trade places with a carpenter, or a painter.
At my most cynical, I wonder if I, a lowly scholar, am of any real use to society. I don’t make anything useful, like bowls or horse shoes, or even create something beautiful, like a mural or sculpture. I do not feel that I have much of a place in this world, nor do I feel some of my fellows justified in looking down at tradespeople the way they do. For what is it that we scholars do? I suppose that one might argue that we preserve history. While this is true, there are others that do that as well—librarians, storytellers, teachers—and even if there weren’t, it’s not like most scholars can claim that they spend even half their time preserving history. Indeed, copying old histories is a much complained about task, often left to the most junior of us. As for our other pursuits, particularly philosophy, I do not see how they serve anyone. The questions of the philosopher are designed to be unanswerable, and as such provide little to the average person. Perhaps politicians and the like get some use out of philosophy, but I would not recon it significant. I think some knowledge of philosophy is more the type of thing that someone flaunts to show that they are rich enough to afford leisure time enough to read dry philosophical texts.
As far as I have studied philosophy, morality and its sub-topics have been my main interests. Indeed, reflection on morality is what prompted this writing. You see, I was reading some differing opinions on what a Utopia would look like, and then began to think about my own idea of a Utopia. What frightens me, you see, is that there would be no place for my kind there. In my Utopia, everyone would do honest work that contributed to the well being of the town—and I do mean town, for there are no great cities in my Utopia—and there would be no class distinctions. Eliminate classes, and force everyone to do honest labor, well, if you’re spending your day working there is no time for intense reading and research. For that matter, there is no reason for such research.
So why then would I design a Utopia in which I have no place? I assure you, dear reader, I did not intend to. Instead, I believe it to be a byproduct of the things I identified as things I did not like about our world as it is now. I dislike the way that no one trusts each other, and I dislike the intrigues of the upper class, as well as the way that most nobility feels so superior to all others. We do not choose the circumstances under which we are born. Furthermore, I dislike the disregard most city dwellers have for the land: we pollute it, overtax it, and expect that it will sustain us for all eternity. I do not feel that I would be over sorry to see our whole complex destroyed, and in its place a great park built.
And yet, after all, Utopias are never meant to exist, so I will never have to worry about being out of a job. Still, I live with the feeling that I have a living I do not deserve. I feel as if I were untalented, and as such relegated to a vocation that anyone can do with any training…it’s not like reading, writing, and research require much talent. As long as one has patience, one can learn to be a scholar. So, I come to realize—with a pang of guilt—that what is really bothering me is that I am average, mediocre, and possessed of no special talent. Almost, I lament the knowledge that has led me to this conclusion, for I am saddened to be living in a world that I see as sadly gone astray, and cannot even take solace in the fact that my life is worth anything to anyone but myself. If only I could mend a roof, to make people warmer in the winter, or make paper for people to write on, or anything that was of use to anyone but a pack of rich snobs.

-A Young Scholar