In one of his letters, J.R.R. Tolkien wrote about how the translation group he and C.S. Lewis and others had would not permit anyone to bring a cheat sheet. Their aim was to translate together, and to do the work of translating on the fly. If someone brought a crib sheet to the table so they could sneak a glance at it, that was cause for ejection from the group. What’s the problem with such a sheet? It certainly can help with translation, after all. But if the aim is to translate together and not to appear to be wiser than one is, the notes don’t serve the ends of friendship; they serve the individual’s ego and fear of being perceived as one actually is. It’s a violation of trust, a concealment. I’m thinking about this today as I consider the role of tech in classrooms and boardrooms. Wearables and apps on phones and laptops allow us to have crib sheets that others won’t notice. And in some contexts, these technologies can be helpful. I’ve sometimes dictated ideas and short essays while on a long run across the prairie, speaking into my phone as I run. Sometimes I use my phone to snap a photo on a run or a hike when I really wish I had my sketchbook and time to sit and do a plein air sketch. I often then complete the sketch from the photo at home that evening. The tech can be useful and helpful in so many ways. But it can also remove us from the community, or prop up our weaknesses rather than helping us to become stronger. I wonder how many of my students aren’t writing notes in class because (a) they are using tech to summarize what they hear from me, and (b) no one has ever taught them how to take notes. Lately my teaching technique has shifted and I am teaching more of what I used to teach middle schoolers: how to read, how to take notes, how to listen to others, how to have a thoughtful conversation. Used poorly, tech can help us pretend to know how to do those things. Used well, it can help us learn those things. And with practice, we can store up good things in our hearts, where rust and moth will not destroy them, where the tech needs no upgrade, no recharge, no planned-obsolescence replacement.

I don’t remember which of his letters Tolkien wrote about that. So rust and moth do eventually take the fine edge off my memories, for sure! I do keep extensive notes on my reading, as I have done for decades, and I could look it up, but I also like writing blog posts quickly, as an exercise in writing, memory, thinking.

Years ago, when I was writing my first book on C.S. Lewis, a few chapters for a friend’s book on Lewis’s Christian apologetics, and a chapter on Tolkien’s philosophy of play for another volume, I spent a lot of time in the Lewis and Tolkien archives at Wheaton College, and reading through the collected letters of Lewis and Tolkien.

Those were good years, and part of the delight of being a professor. The pay is poor, but the reward is leisure for reading and writing that results in better teaching. That privilege is becoming scarcer and scarcer, and even those of us with tenured jobs find that the machinery of the university is steadily grinding down the scholastic (from the Greek scholê, meaning “leisure,” and from which we get our word “school”) in favor of alleged efficiency.