by Anthony EsolenI work at one of the most atavistic institutions in the world. I am a college professor, teaching in the humanities.
By "atavistic," I do not mean anything so noble as that we still cherish the poets of old and feel honored to sit at their feet and listen, if not to their wisdom, at least to their touches of sweet harmony. A few old-fashioned liberal professors, I suppose, still hold fondly to the hope of the once-Christian Matthew Arnold, that the moral order would be saved by good taste in poetry. Most professors in the humanities have reeled back into the beast—a sallow and lumpy beast, b . . .