It is often the case that non-fiction books with apocalyptic titles turn out to be a ruse. When China Rules the World (2007, 2012) was a title that was attention-grabbing and scary, in addition to being untrue. Its author Martin Jacques had to at some point in the book make the qualifier that he didn’t mean that China would in a literal sense rule the world. His less dramatic thesis was that it would exercise more influence in the coming decades, tempered by the U.S. and the E.U. and other regional powers. Only in private moments at book tours would Jacques no doubt make the ‘Who Knew?’ confession that his publishers dreamt up the title.
In The Death of Expertise: The Case Against Established and Why it Matters (2017), the qualifier comes in the first few pages. Tom Nichols, former policy wonk in the U.S. Senate and a teacher at the U.S. Naval War College, reassures us that experts are still alive and well. But they are in dire straits.
Like so many titles beginning with ‘The Death of…’ and ‘The End of…’, Nichols’ work is a warning rather than an autopsy, the charting of a disturbing trend the continuation of which might result in a state of affairs that reflects a literal reading of the title.
Now with this nit-picking out of the way…
We should all be glad that this book – brisk, trenchant, and clear-headed – was written and published at this time.
What has irritated Nichols’ into writing it is not that the general population (mainly from his home country with only cursory asides to others) is indifferent to those with learning and knowledge. That has been a staple of American life since its founding. What has changed is the level of hostility towards experts.
The causes of this hostility are multiple but two big ones stand out. The first is quite easy: the proliferation of search engines and social media platforms has given ordinary citizens the impression that they can learn and conquer vast realms of expert knowledge, and in turn out-smart their more educated fellow citizens. The second has to do with the declining levels of trust in institutions and authority in America, an observation that has become something of a staple for social scientists, especially the likes of Robert Putnam. (Of course this observation has to be broken down empirically when considering that some minorities in the U.S. have never had any reason to trust institutions).
Nichols pulls examples from public policy, foreign affairs, medical advice and conspiracy theories to demonstrate how an environment of intellectual egalitarianism has produced a public where no one has the right to say they’re smarter than anyone else. Announcements of superior knowledge are denounced as elitism. Amateur enthusiasts assume sibling identity with seasoned professionals. Most importantly, the gulf between experts and laypeople has dissolved the tropes of reasoned and fair argument.
So much for Nichols’ diagnosis. What of his suggestions?
There are three ideal types that Nichols identifies: experts, laypeople and in between these two, public intellectuals. For the most part, Nichols is addressing himself to laypeople, spelling out how they can better read and evaluate the work of experts. This basically boils down to simple advice such as being better informed, being receptive to other points of view, and being humble in the company of more knowledgeable people. Because experts are fallible, and because there are so many of them in different fields, the project of monitoring them cannot be simply to give a pass/fail mark. Experts fail every once in a while, but the response cannot be instantaneous distrust of expertise in general.
Nichols’ advice to laypeople to be more discriminating and thoughtful is not the same as calling for a more engaged citizenry, which a lot of books of this nature usually end up advocating. The whole defence of expertise in a democracy is meant to reinforce the division of labour that already exists, in all its mundane glory. This is a conservative thesis in so broad a sense that it transcends partisan loyalties: one doesn’t need to be a defender of Plato’s Republic to see that climatologists deserve more of a hearing on the issue of climate change than radio talk show hosts.
Political theorists of the idealist variety are prone to suggesting that everyone should become amateur enthusiasts about public policy. In his book Liberalism, Constitutionalism and Democracy (1999), the late Russell Hardin made the realist argument that even if ordinary citizens did set aside an hour a week to learn about the issues, they would still be outdone by the full-time, fully-paid professionals who exist in the world of politics. This is a point that Nichols makes in a less clinical fashion. It is not only that dilettantism, no matter how colourful, cannot substitute for the training and commitment of expertise; it is that it is practically an ecological impossibility. Intellectual interdependence is a reality, not simply a norm.
If there is a weakness in Tom Nichols’ book, it lies in the weight of anecdotal over scholarly evidence. When he does use studies and surveys they are from popularly-noted reports published in the New York Times or the Washington Post. While the thesis as interpreted here is hardly in need of scientific precision, the reader could use more numbers and statistics and less personal reminiscences. Even though Nichols himself is an academic, The Death of Expertise lies somewhere between personal vendetta and journalism without approaching a high level of seriousness. Such may be for the better. The topic of how popular ignorance is screwing us sideways probably deserved a book that was easy and lively rather than arcane and stiff.
With that said, the primary asset The Death of Expertise has going for it is its timeliness. Donald Trump rears his head several times in the book, as do the half-lies and exaggerations of the Brexit campaign. While anti-vaccination efforts are analysed here and dietary fads analysed there, it is the contestations over knowledge in politics that is the beating heart of this book. And because politics at this moment seems dominated by those who, as the philosopher Michael P. Lynch observes, have conviction but lack humility, the book cannot conceal its pessimism. All Nichols can end up hoping for is for everyone to try a little harder.
In The Death of Expertise: The Case Against Established and Why it Matters (2017), the qualifier comes in the first few pages. Tom Nichols, former policy wonk in the U.S. Senate and a teacher at the U.S. Naval War College, reassures us that experts are still alive and well. But they are in dire straits.
Like so many titles beginning with ‘The Death of…’ and ‘The End of…’, Nichols’ work is a warning rather than an autopsy, the charting of a disturbing trend the continuation of which might result in a state of affairs that reflects a literal reading of the title.
Now with this nit-picking out of the way…
We should all be glad that this book – brisk, trenchant, and clear-headed – was written and published at this time.
What has irritated Nichols’ into writing it is not that the general population (mainly from his home country with only cursory asides to others) is indifferent to those with learning and knowledge. That has been a staple of American life since its founding. What has changed is the level of hostility towards experts.
The causes of this hostility are multiple but two big ones stand out. The first is quite easy: the proliferation of search engines and social media platforms has given ordinary citizens the impression that they can learn and conquer vast realms of expert knowledge, and in turn out-smart their more educated fellow citizens. The second has to do with the declining levels of trust in institutions and authority in America, an observation that has become something of a staple for social scientists, especially the likes of Robert Putnam. (Of course this observation has to be broken down empirically when considering that some minorities in the U.S. have never had any reason to trust institutions).
Nichols pulls examples from public policy, foreign affairs, medical advice and conspiracy theories to demonstrate how an environment of intellectual egalitarianism has produced a public where no one has the right to say they’re smarter than anyone else. Announcements of superior knowledge are denounced as elitism. Amateur enthusiasts assume sibling identity with seasoned professionals. Most importantly, the gulf between experts and laypeople has dissolved the tropes of reasoned and fair argument.
So much for Nichols’ diagnosis. What of his suggestions?
There are three ideal types that Nichols identifies: experts, laypeople and in between these two, public intellectuals. For the most part, Nichols is addressing himself to laypeople, spelling out how they can better read and evaluate the work of experts. This basically boils down to simple advice such as being better informed, being receptive to other points of view, and being humble in the company of more knowledgeable people. Because experts are fallible, and because there are so many of them in different fields, the project of monitoring them cannot be simply to give a pass/fail mark. Experts fail every once in a while, but the response cannot be instantaneous distrust of expertise in general.
Nichols’ advice to laypeople to be more discriminating and thoughtful is not the same as calling for a more engaged citizenry, which a lot of books of this nature usually end up advocating. The whole defence of expertise in a democracy is meant to reinforce the division of labour that already exists, in all its mundane glory. This is a conservative thesis in so broad a sense that it transcends partisan loyalties: one doesn’t need to be a defender of Plato’s Republic to see that climatologists deserve more of a hearing on the issue of climate change than radio talk show hosts.
Political theorists of the idealist variety are prone to suggesting that everyone should become amateur enthusiasts about public policy. In his book Liberalism, Constitutionalism and Democracy (1999), the late Russell Hardin made the realist argument that even if ordinary citizens did set aside an hour a week to learn about the issues, they would still be outdone by the full-time, fully-paid professionals who exist in the world of politics. This is a point that Nichols makes in a less clinical fashion. It is not only that dilettantism, no matter how colourful, cannot substitute for the training and commitment of expertise; it is that it is practically an ecological impossibility. Intellectual interdependence is a reality, not simply a norm.
If there is a weakness in Tom Nichols’ book, it lies in the weight of anecdotal over scholarly evidence. When he does use studies and surveys they are from popularly-noted reports published in the New York Times or the Washington Post. While the thesis as interpreted here is hardly in need of scientific precision, the reader could use more numbers and statistics and less personal reminiscences. Even though Nichols himself is an academic, The Death of Expertise lies somewhere between personal vendetta and journalism without approaching a high level of seriousness. Such may be for the better. The topic of how popular ignorance is screwing us sideways probably deserved a book that was easy and lively rather than arcane and stiff.
With that said, the primary asset The Death of Expertise has going for it is its timeliness. Donald Trump rears his head several times in the book, as do the half-lies and exaggerations of the Brexit campaign. While anti-vaccination efforts are analysed here and dietary fads analysed there, it is the contestations over knowledge in politics that is the beating heart of this book. And because politics at this moment seems dominated by those who, as the philosopher Michael P. Lynch observes, have conviction but lack humility, the book cannot conceal its pessimism. All Nichols can end up hoping for is for everyone to try a little harder.
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