The Despair of the Professor in the Age of A.I.

Illustration by George Wylesol Save this story Save this story Save this story Save this story You’re reading Fault Lines, Jay Caspian Kang’s weekly column on politics and the media.In my writing, and in my idle thoughts, I often return to Arjuna’s lament upon surveying the battlefield of Kurukshetra and finding that he must kill his friends and family. What is his duty in that extraordinary moment? What is my duty, then, in far more ordinary and less harrowing circumstances?

This question, which unfolds throughout a conversation with Krishna, appears in the first chapter of the Bhagavad Gita, a book I somehow did not know existed until I took a Hinduism class in college. I was not a good student, routinely skipping class, but, worried that there would be a price to pay for my truancy and bad grades, I tried, sometimes. A few books got read, including the Gita, which I didn’t really understand until my professor—the sort of charming, gray-haired stoic found in religion departments of liberal-arts colleges across New England—explained, in a capacious and friendly way, that one should do their duty without considering the outcome. And, even though I don’t remember doing particularly well in that class, I have spent the last twenty-five years thinking about Arjuna’s despair and Krishna’s command.

When I think about whether my nine-year-old will need to go to college, I mostly hope she won’t, because I don’t think this country should rely so heavily on a credentialling system that’s far too expensive, inaccessible, and time-consuming to be worth it. But I do worry that she will miss out on experiences like mine, when a nineteen-year-old was forced to read something he wouldn’t have otherwise and was guided toward a revelation, however banal or vain, by a patient professor. How do you place a value on something like that?