The Stewardship of Ideas

One of the most difficult concepts I teach in the composition classroom is a deceptively simple one: we are not our essays, we are not our own reflections. Every essay is its own document, which takes on its an autonomous life once we finish writing and set it free.

A crucial moment in every young writer’s career comes not when she/he sees their words in print for the first time, or—even more specifically—when she/he sees someone else reference their work. Both moments are, of course, deeply rewarding. But those aren’t the times when we really become aware of our place as writers. It comes when we first realize that that presence as writers has been, in some meaningful way, tied to something else, beyond our control, whether we like it or not.

But more than that, too, we begin to see that, by writing on that topic in visible ways, we have taken on the responsibility of those ideas; we are not the owners, but the caretakers, of the subject matter, concepts, etc., we have chosen to dedicate ourselves to, even long after we’ve stopped writing. That’s because our words and ideas take on a life of their own in circulation—that we are bound to, and the stewards of. We cannot control, but are nonetheless responsible for, the actions of our discursive children.

I was reminded of this when I saw Catherine Grant’s thorough and generous list of the excellent free resources on the topic of “cinephilia,” which included (far too) many of my own musings on the topic as well as a humbling plug for the collection. I have never considered cinephilia a primary concern of mine, but rather a secondary, side-hobby at best. This is largely because academia frowns upon it, and because I’ve never felt like I had that much to say about it. But I see now that my work has carved out its own niche in spite of my (often) careless inattention to it.

Scott (my frequent collaborator) and I have become responsible for that topic—we are (along with many others) the stewards for cinephilia. I do not “own” cinephilia, not even my own often half-thought and ephemeral discussions on them, but I am responsible for it, for helping to shape what it has, what it will and what it will not become. For the rest of my life, my scholarship will in part be defined by that. This is turns gives me greater motivation—or should I say, acknowledged obligation—to finish and publish my perpetually shifting Cinephiliac Practice of Everyday Life, primarily because I feel the need to more fully develop my thoughts on a topic already prescribed to me, to fill in a void discursive landscape that has already been excavated in my name.

I have long felt that way about Kubrick for several years now, someone I get linked to in spite of my resistance to it. I have not written anything about him for over two years, and I have not given him significantly undivided attention for much longer than that. I have never taught a Kubrick film. I do not particularly like my book on him. I am proud of the accomplishment—but that’s a very different matter. And yet I am constantly linked to him all the same—in seminar rooms, in job interviews, in casual chats, as well as in formal print. But I simply have, right now, little interest in Stanley Kubrick.

And yet--despite my own ambivalence towards the Kubrick book, and towards my ever seriously revising any of it--I take the stewardship of Kubrick seriously. I take seriously my connections and friendships with other Kubrick scholars as stewards. I am responsible when someone cites me on him. I care what is said about him and his films. I care that people remember him and respect his craft. I take criticism of “authorship” seriously. I take criticism of my own work on him and of others’ work on him seriously. And it’s less because I am proud of my own work and more because I am deeply invested - by others as much as myself - in the films of Stanley Kubrick. I am aware, and take on without reservation, how I will always be partially responsible as the caretaker of this scholarly legacy, and for my own limited impact on it.