Has Modern Science Killed the Essay?

“Thence it happens that nothing is so firmly believed as what is least known, nor are any people so confident as those who tell us fables, such as alchemists, prognosticators, astrologers, palmists, doctors––that whole breed.” – Michel de Montaigne

There has been much to do about the rise of artificial intelligence and the death of the essay. It is indisputable that these things are related, but their causal nature is overstated. The essay had received a terminal diagnosis long before the launch of ChatGPT. 

Much of the academic hand-wringing on the fate of the essay appeared—unsurprisingly—in essay form. One such piece in The Atlantic ends somewhat hopefully. Once we recognize the divergent perspectives of technologists and humanists as valuable counterparts, each camp can be implored to learn at their foil’s feet. While one would be right to pick up a whiff of adversarial rivalry between science and the humanities, the charge to make nice might overestimate the former’s appreciation for the latter.  

Today, the character of science is in tension with that of the humanities. Science is steeped in a distinctly modern hubris, and it bristles at anything that does not aid in the relief of man’s estate. While both might begin in wonder, modern science terminates in a sense of finality––the feeling that some questions are just settled, and to relitigate them would be anti-intellectual, or even offensive. That one would take a denial of scientific fact to be a personal affront seems a particularly modern problem; Greta Thunberg’s “how dare you” heard ‘round the world comes to mind. Properly understood, humanistic inquiry aims at truth, but rarely treats answers as gospel. It is this open and probing quality that informs the medium of the essay.

The essay was inaugurated by Michel de Montaigne (1533–1592) with the publication of his semi-autobiographical Essais in 1580. A skeptic, epistemic humility permeates Montaigne’s work. He admits that he’s unsatisfied with the certainty he finds in knowledge of “things”, and instead turns in on himself. At the heart of Montaigne’s art of living is a restatement of the Platonic command to know thyself; he tells us at the outset of the Essais that “I myself am the subject of my book.” Though more truth can be found through introspection, skepticism is built into Montaigne’s self-understanding, and his mode of philosophic inquiry: the very meaning of essai is “try-out” or “attempt.”

One gleans this sense in reading the Essais. Montaigne meanders. He puts forth answers, and proceeds to contradict himself. His inner life is messy, his knowledge is incomplete, and his conclusions aren’t conclusions at all––at least not in the fullest sense. Montaigne believed that no this-worldly answer could be final, and it’s this belief that animates the form of the essay as it was originally conceived.

We see some element of skepticism in the Enlightenment rationalism that succeeded Montaigne, but it’s brand of skepticism that is far from Montaignean. Montaigne endeavors to be a skeptic through and through. He peels back the curtain of orthodoxy, but is too humble to join the vanguard. The rationalists delight in defying dogma––precisely because they are apt to replace it with their own. This is the inheritance of modern science, and in important ways, it is our American inheritance. Throughout this country’s short history, many have noted that the rationalistic ethos is deeply interwoven with our national character.   

We see this laid bare in the language of the Founding. In Federalist 1, Hamilton articulates his understanding of the American project as “establishing good government from reflection and choice.” Implicit in this statement is the notion that such a thing is even possible––that through the application of our reason, we can not only choose our political institutions, but invent them. The natural progression of that scientific spirit has seeped into every facet of American life.  

One might argue that the omnipresence of this mentality is not a problem in itself. Indeed, the scientific developments of the Industrial Revolution, for example, propelled humanity toward unprecedented material prosperity. Technological advancements have yielded real goods, and shouldn’t be dismissed out of hand due to what some deem an ignoble birth.

Nevertheless, there has long been a temptation to throw the baby out with the bathwater. To the claim that science stokes the flames of our social ills, Michael Oakeshott retorted that this diagnosis was too simple. We cannot attribute “our predicament” to the commanding presence of the natural sciences or “the manner of thinking connected with them.” Such a position, Oakeshott argues, conflates rationalism and science. The trouble only comes when the scientist seeks to apply his technical knowledge to the world outside his narrowly specialized sphere.

If the cracks were beginning to show over three-quarters of a century ago, it’s safe to say that Oakeshott’s paradigm is nearly shattered. Today, scientists routinely voyage far afield from their areas of expertise. There’s perhaps no better example than a horde of CDC experts issuing sweeping COVID guidelines that often felt like law. 

Meanwhile, Elon Musk––who first moved to California to pursue a Ph.D. in applied physics at Stanford––is now making his foray into the business of education. Musk recently filed documents in Texas to establish a STEM-oriented K-12 school, with the aim of expanding into post-secondary instruction. There’s an air of haughtiness that accompanies a tech mogul’s belief that he can translate his experience as an engineer and business magnate to directing “education at the highest levels.” It is the same arrogance of rationalism itself. 

If Elon Musk’s educational shrine to empiricism is to require essays at all, they will no doubt emphasize the treasured tool of the scientist: evidence. This wouldn’t be unique to STEM schools. A cursory read of any state’s K-12 educational standards for humanistic disciplines reveals the same commitment. Students are expected to support their claims with evidence. The surest way to stifle creative thought––the best sanitizer we have––are citations. Rather than cultivating self-possessed individuals, simply regurgitating well-established arguments renders students cookie-cutter creatures of their time.

This isn’t to say that students should be encouraged to merely pontificate, or brazenly advance baseless claims without fear of scrutiny. But the experience of thinking––really thinking––rarely includes a trip to Wikipedia. Learning to follow a train of thought from its start to its logical conclusion, and enduring all the detours along the way, is an increasingly lost art. The Socratic dialectic exemplifies this pursuit, mirroring the organic nature of thought over rigidly structured arguments laden with statistics. Especially if one is to accept that scientific precision cannot be applied to every question, it is more important than ever to work through big questions in an earnest and searching way. 

But perhaps it would be unfair to hold science solely responsible for our obsession with evidence. After all, for someone who chose to open with a quotation, I’ve spent a lot of time chiding the urge to cite. The irony is not lost on me when I write: Montaigne has something to say about this too. 

For Montaigne, cramming a piece of writing chock full of quotes doesn’t belie a love of science so much as it reveals the pride of its author. When we rely on our unaided reason, we’re quickly brought to see the limits of our intellect. Rather than betraying our vulnerability, we use more eloquent writers as a shield. We inflect our observations with the insights of wiser thinkers, wearing their genius as a mask. But more than papering over our insecurities, we hope in vain that implicating ourselves in the great conversation will earn us the same repute. 

Readers of Montaigne will notice that his writing is adorned with the voices of antiquity. But Montaigne insulates himself from criticism by asserting that “I quote others only in order to better express myself.”

The most expert arguments certainly make use of evidence. What distinguishes these from the prideful or partisans of science is the author’s posture. A problem arises when one cites out of a pressure to conform to the scientific establishment, or to imbue their work with legitimacy that the strength of their ideas alone cannot win. And this problem has smothered the modern essay.  

If the essay weren’t held in a scientistic stranglehold, we wouldn’t be talking about a language model’s capacity to corrupt it. The reduction of essay-writing to a rationalistic routine is exactly what makes it susceptible to ChatGPT’s incursion. All artificial intelligence can give us are facts, or an expression of facts coupled with recycled analysis. AI cannot feel. It cannot experience the organic spark of inspiration that catalyzes discovery. It is this quality that is key to engaging in the humanities, and natural sciences at their best.

Of course, what we ask for and expect from a ninth-grade English paper is often a product that lies squarely in AI’s wheelhouse. For the checked-out teen or exhausted undergraduate just trying to make a passing grade, there’s no doubt that the skillful use of a large language model can be an asset. Educational experts and cultural commentators have written on the practical ramifications of this fact ad nauseam. There’s no doubt that generative artificial intelligence will force educators to approach the essay differently.  

But to understand the form of the essay as a hodgepodge of facts and figures arranged to reach a predetermined conclusion is to admit defeat. It reflects a privileging of utility over beauty that is deeply ingrained in the American consciousness––which is to say that AI is far from our first brush with this phenomenon. It is the natural progression of a longstanding sentiment. 

The true death knell of the essay does not lie in the advancements of technology but in our collective surrender to the utilitarian impulse that prizes expediency over exploration, certainty over curiosity, and conclusions over contemplation.

More than a rejection of AI, rescuing the essay demands a celebration of original thought, an embrace of diverse perspectives, and a restoration of the essay’s essence—a canvas for exploration, not an easel for conclusions.

So, earnest seekers after truth, rejoice! AI cannot direct reason––it is a supplement at best. Those well-versed in humanistic study will have no problem distinguishing original from algorithmic thought. We need not rally against AI, but around the essence of the essay: a home for human inquiry, and a testament to all of the beauty and imperfections of man’s intellect.

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