Critical Literacy Lessons for the Intellectual Properties of Learning from Bede and Alcuin of York

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Stanford University makes this peer-reviewed final draft available under a Creative Commons Attribution- Noncommercial License. The published version is available from the publisher, subscribing libraries, and the author.

Willinsky, John & Provençal, Johanne. (in press). Critical literacy lessons for the intellectual properties of learning from Bede and Alcuin of York. International Journal of Cultural Studies. Critical Literacy Lessons for the Intellectual Properties of Learning from Bede and Alcuin of York

John Willinsky [email protected] Johanne Provençal [email protected]

Abstract The concept of intellectual property, which has been largely absent from education in critical literacy, has much to contribute to it. Intellectual property rights have become increasingly crucial to issues of access to and economics of research and scholarship today and how such rights are associated with learning and the work of the learned is relevant to critical literacy. To begin to establish how intellectual property has long played a role in the critical shaping of learning, this paper considers the eighth-century examples provided by Bede and by Alcuin of York in the medieval monastic development of learning in the West. These examples illustrate how a cultural history of the proto-concept of intellectual property can illuminate the special and distinct status of learning in the production and circulation of knowledge. If we are to appreciate why we might expect a certain class of intellectual property, closely associated with the production of knowledge in institutions such as universities, to be regarded as a public resource and goods, then we need to appreciate how this sense of the public good has long been a part of the educational history of the West. To that end, Bede and Alcuin of York are considered as medieval historical precedents for an opening up of literacy and learning that is relevant to digital era issues over long-established tensions between a cloistered literacy (and learning) that is placed at a remove from the world and an opening up of literacy, learning, and access to knowledge.

Keywords: Critical literacy, intellectual property, Alcuin, Bede, scholarly communication.

Introduction

One thing that is arguably critical to literacy today is an understanding of intellectual property. It is critical in the sense that, while the legal and economic structures of intellectual property determine access to knowledge and more broadly underwrite the information economy, it hardly figures in literacy education at any level. People may possess a rather cursory understanding of the commercial value of copyright, the sins of plagiarism, and the legalities of downloading digital content, but clearly much more is at stake with intellectual property. When the United Nations Declaration of Human declares that ‘everyone has the right freely to participate in the cultural life of the community, to…share in scientific advancement and its benefits,’ as set forth in Article 27, that human right is mitigated by the intellectual property regimes governing the sharing of cultural artifacts and scientific advances (Kunz, 1949). Intellectual property provides the legal and economic basis for ensuring gross inequities in the global circulation of knowledge (Krikorian & Kapczynski, 2010); it comes into play in struggles over the control of indigenous knowledge (Battiste & Youngblood, 2000). The digital era has only increased the importance of intellectual property questions in thinking about the politics of knowledge and the sharing of learning on a global scale. It is the site of disputes over the confinement of culture and freedom of expression, from hip hop music to documentary films (Macleod, 2005). Such disputes have given rise to widely embraced alternatives to current copyright restrictions, principally through Creative Commons licensing for cultural, educational, and scholarly works (Lessig, 2004) and open source licenses for software (Weber, 2006). Here, then, is political, economic, and ethical grist for critical literacy education. Here is the value of understanding the principles and history behind this concept that governs literacy’s status as a property, as an economic force and human right. Yet as things now stand, the realm of intellectual property goes largely missing from otherwise admirable considerations of critical literacy for the ‘new information age’ (Avila & Moore, 2012; Gounari, 2009), given little more than mention in passing (Luke, 2011; Warnick, 2002). With this article, our goal is hardly to take on the whole of the relationship among intellectual property, critical literacy, and cultural studies. Rather, we take up, within this bigger picture, one ancient episode from the long historical association of intellectual property and learning. Our hope is to demonstrate how this history can inform current deliberations over intellectual property that bear directly on our own work as scholars, namely, the public status of research and scholarship. To do so, we reach well back

2 before the term ‘intellectual property’ had taken hold (in the nineteenth century) to show how learning first gave rise to a type of property within the medieval monastery that continued to be distinguished, as a form of intellectual property, by how it was fostered within the special economic and legal standing of the universities that followed on from the monasteries in the Late Middle Ages. To this day, the intellectual properties associated with this institutionally sponsored learning are accorded rights and privileges.1 Put another way, there are historical, legal, economic, and moral grounds for treating works of sponsored research and scholarship today as a different order of intellectual property than the copyrighted music of Lady Gaga, for example. However, such distinctions between what Yochai Benkler (2006) identifies as the ‘nonproprietary’ and ‘nonmarket’ works of the learned and that of other intellectual property producers tend to be obscured and lost to sight amid the growing capitalization and commodification of higher education, as attested to by a burgeoning literature on the ‘the perils, rewards, and delusions of campus capitalism,’ to use the subtitle of one recent book (Greenburg, 2007), and ‘the commercialization of higher education,’ in the case of another (Bok, 2004).2 The issue has infected the whole area of scholarly publishing and the circulation of research and scholarship, marked by corporate concentration and high profit margins (Beverungen, Böhm & Land, 2012). In Washington, commercial journal publishers continue to lobby against legislation that supports public access to federally financed research (Willinsky, 2009; Phelps, Fox & Marincola, 2012). More broadly, efforts to introduce open access publishing models that take advantage of the new digital publishing technologies are being resisted, where they are not being exploited as ways of increasing publisher revenue (Suber, 2012; Willinsky, 2006). So while the intellectual property status of work in the academic community is only one small aspect of this larger intellectual property issue, and admittedly far along the literacy scale, it is where we live. Thus, getting our own house in order, and understanding how we have arrived here, is itself an act of critical literacy and, as such, seems a likely starting point, for ourselves as for introducing the issue to others. To turn to the historical context that informs this paper, the initial point to be made is that learning has long held a privileged place within the formation of intellectual property. The first copyright act in the English-speaking world – the Statute of Anne, 1710 – is cast as ‘An Act for the Encouragement of Learning.’ It recognizes the limited rights of an author over their work, while containing multiple protections of the universities, including legal deposit of every book

3 published and a right to force booksellers to reduce their prices. Yet such a law only encodes what was already a common, if often violated, practice. It gave legal weight to a concept of intellectual property (although this term did not come into use until the nineteenth century) that had been taking shape for some time. A century or more earlier, the king was granting patents for certain inventions and the privilege to printers to print whole classes of books as a means of controlling and censoring the press. Yet many centuries earlier, the medieval monasteries of the Christian West were one of the principal institutions of literate activity during the Middle Ages. They form an institutional precursor to the medieval universities, even as they included women, and in positions of authority and leadership, where the universities barred the door to women for many centuries (Weik, 2011). Over the course of the Early and High Middle Ages, a relatively small number of learned nuns and monks gradually established how the careful preparation of texts, enriched with commentary and glosses, served the learning of the larger religious community. To present the briefest of overviews of our larger argument before settling into examining two instances in more details: these works were valued as properties, commonly owned by the community, to be copied and circulated within the network of monasteries. While we can readily imagine the learned monk (if not so much the nun, who was just as active) writing and illuminating manuscripts in cooperation to serve the reading needs of the larger monastic community, it took centuries of critical, literate acts to transform and move the monastery away from the original monastic tradition of the hermit monk, whose labour was a penitent act in pursuit of personal salvation. This earlier tradition was supplanted through the Early Middle Ages by the growing communal production of learned texts, led by a few scholarly nuns and monks in each generation. The scope of this learning was decidedly focused and delimited not only by their own faith, but also, through the easily charged and costly sins of pride and vanity, heresy and blasphemy, as Bede, Anselm of Canterbury, and Peter Abelard, among others, faced for their intellectual daring (Evens, 2004; Clanchy, 1999). Yet the literacy that these nuns and monks exercised, through their glosses, compilations, commentaries, and editions of ‘pagan’ texts (drawn principally from Greek and Islamic sources), was arguably critical and transformative in at least two ways. This original and productive learning came to be valued within the institution as a form of devoutness and discipline, creating a place devoted to learning that operated, through gift and bequeathal, at a remove from the world. This enabled the learned, in turn, to expand the institution’s intellectual

4 boundaries by introducing into the West new areas of mathematics, history, medicine, science, and logic. We would not be so foolish to suggest that critical literacy was born out of the silence of the cloisters, broken by goose quills scraping against vellum and periodic Gregorian chants. We want only to suggest that this setting offers an instance in a very long history that may illuminate today’s struggles over the intellectual property standing of academic work and thus, an instance in the relevance of taking intellectual property as critical to an understanding of literacy. Turning to the eighth century in the Latin West, we consider the part played by two monks in a transformation, of no small consequence, for literacy and learning. The first part is played by the monk Bede, who lived from 672 to 735 AD, principally in the twin monasteries of Wearmouth-Jarrow in the north of England; and the second is Alcuin of York, 735-804, who first found his calling in the court of Charlemagne before going on to be abbot at the monastery at Tours. They form something of a matched pair, in that Bede’s learned life within the monastery significantly influences Alcuin’s widespread educational contribution outside of monasticism, even as Alcuin more than returns the favour by devoting his final years to raising the quality of manuscripts produced in the scriptorium. Our choice of Bede and Alcuin, plucked from a larger history that one of us continues to write, is admittedly somewhat arbitrary, as they are hardly alone or singular in exemplifying early instances of how literate learning is set apart from other crafts and skills in its production of intellectual properties. But then it is worth noting that we deliberately play here on properties, as the work of Bede and Alcuin exhibits specific intellectual qualities (or properties) – involving critical norms of openness and rigour in the use of evidence and sources – while being recognized and treated as (intellectual) property. Their books were valued, revered and copied in light of what they contributed to a larger community, particularly to the learning and literacy of that community.

Bede and the quiet achievement of monastic learning

Looking to the life and work of Bede across the seventh and eighth centuries reveals a critical turning point for learning within monasticism. In Bede’s hands, study became something more than an act of penitent contrition; it resulted in widely read and cited works. Bede made it clear that, rather than redeeming past or original sins, this intellectual work with words was capable of producing its own fruitful garden, a bookish Eden held in common. In their veneration of Bede, monks and nuns would also recognize how intellectual labour could create a common good. In

5 679, when Bede was but a young lad of seven years of age, he was, ‘by the care of my kinsmen,’ as he describes it, ‘put into charge of the reverend Abbot Benedict and then to Ceolfrid to be educated’ (Bede, 1969: 5.24). He had entered the twin monasteries of Wearmouth-Jarrow in the north of Anglo-Saxon England, where he was to remain for the rest of his life, as oblate, novice, and monk. In the 55 years that Bede spent at Wearmouth-Jarrow what he accomplished was nothing less than a quiet and humble triumph of monastic scholarship. ‘Amid the observance of the discipline of the Rule and the daily task of singing in the church,’ Bede writes of this productive life, ‘it has always been my delight to learn or to teach or to write’ (Bede, 1969: 5.24). His life represented a somewhat creative, if not transformative, observance of the Rule, which was composed by Benedict of Nursia, who fled his studies in sixth-century Rome to seek redemption in solitude and prayer before going on to write the intellectually austere guide or rule for Benedictine monasticism that dominated the Middle Ages (Rule, 2008). To begin with, Bede turned teaching into a vocation and did so without serving as abbot. The Rule treated teaching as the purview of the abbot: ‘It is right that the master should speak and teach while the disciple should be made silent and listen’ (Rule, 2008: 21). In addition, Saint Jerome had cautioned monks against such pedagogical ambitions, holding that ‘the work of the monk is to weep not to teach’ (Leclercq, 1982: 206-207). By contrast, Bede taught, and did so with delight rather than tears. ‘What Bede wanted to do and did superbly,’ George Hardin Brown, Stanford English and classics professor notes, ‘was educate, soberly, quietly, discreetly’ (1996: 1). Bede made a forceful, if humble, example of himself, demonstrating what learning and teaching could contribute to the ‘fight for the heavenly kingdom,’ as he described the determined efforts of nun and monk (Bede, 1969: 3.18). It earned him the title of teacher of the whole Middle Ages. As a teacher, he emphasized the importance of listening to students, for ‘when one teaches it is very difficult to prevent some aspect of boastful pride stealing in’ (Eckenrode, 1977: 160). He also allowed for how ‘not one and the same teaching is suitable for all,’ but that for all the aim was to ‘excite the hearts of the hearers to offer their good works to the Lord’ (Eckenrode, 1977: 164). If Bede was not the first monk to delight in his own and others’ learning, he was particularly adept at portraying education’s contribution to monasticism. Learning’s gifts repeatedly shine through his celebrated Ecclesiastical History of the English People. The English were drawn to Irish monasteries in the previous century, he explains in this work, by their

6 reputations for learned grace and generosity: ‘There were many in England, both nobles and commons, who…retired to Ireland either for the sake of religious studies or to live a more ascetic life [and]…devoted themselves faithfully to the monastic life, while others preferred to travel around to the [monastic] cells of various teachers and apply themselves to study’ (Bede, 1969: 3.27). Such was the force of Irish learning that ‘in the case of people suffering from snakebite, the leaves of manuscripts from Ireland were scraped, and the scrapings put in water and given to the sufferers to drink’ (Bede, 1969: 1.1). Bede relates the generous openness with which the Irish shared their learning: ‘The Irish welcomed them all gladly, gave them their daily food, and also provided them with books to read and with instruction, without asking for any payment’ (Bede, 1969: 3.27).3 Bede also includes in his history the example of Theodore, a Greek-speaking monk from Asia Minor who became archbishop of Canterbury. Theodore was joined at Canterbury by Hadrian, a former abbot from Africa, and started a school that taught both Greek and Latin: ‘Because both of them were extremely learned in sacred and secular literature, they attracted a crowd of students into whose minds they daily poured the streams of wholesome learning’ (Bede, 1969: 4.2). Bede’s reference to the wholesomeness of the learning spread by Theodore and Hadrian was important in forestalling the anti-intellectual charges, common enough during this time, of exhibiting by one’s learning the sinful pride (in attracting crowds) and paganism (through teaching secular literature, particularly from the Greeks). Bede champions Theodore and Hadrian’s ability to build a community through their ‘extremely learned’ teaching, as well as through the library they managed to assemble at Canterbury. While Benedict’s Rule assumed that monasteries would be equipped with a modest collection of sacred writings to share among its members, at Wearmouth-Jarrow monks and abbots managed to assemble over the years one of the finest libraries of its time, with an estimated 200 volumes (Love, 2010: 43). Bede also credits Benedict Biscop, who had founded Wearmouth and Jarrow earlier in the century, with repeated book-acquisition trips to Rome, and notes with some enthusiasm that Benedict brought ‘back a large number of books on all branches of sacred knowledge, some bought at a favourable price, others the gifts of well-wishers’ (Bede, 1965: 188-89). Such was to be the peripatetic life of the scholar, supported by well-wishers and favoured by bargain prices. Toward the end of Benedict’s life, Bede notes, ‘he gave orders that the fine and extensive library of books which he had brought back from Rome and which were so

7 necessary for improving the standard of education in this church should be carefully preserved as a single collection and not allowed to decay thought neglect or be split up piecemeal’ (Bede, 1965: 196). Abbot Ceolfrid, who was elected to succeed Benedict, then ‘doubled the number of books in both of the monasteries with an ardour equal to that which Benedict had shown in founding them’ (Bede, 1965: 201).4

Producing texts, bibliographic practices, review, and academic freedom

In addition to acquiring titles for the monastic library, Bede involved himself in all aspects of book production: ‘I am myself at once my own dictator, stenographer, and copyist’ (Brown, 2009: 11). Over the course of his life, Bede produced an amazing array of learned works in history, grammar, orthography, rhetoric, hagiography, mathematics, chronology, biblical commentary, and geography, in addition to the devotional poetry he composed. In addition, out of the commonwealth of this greater library, Bede skillfully fashioned treatises for students and prepared compilations and commentaries for the larger monastic community: ‘I have made it my business, for my own benefit and that of my brothers, to make brief extracts from the works of the venerable fathers on the holy Scriptures, or to add notes of my own to clarify their sense and interpretation’ (Bede, 1969: 5.24). As well, Bede brought his own experience and observations together with the work of others, such as Pliny the Elder in the case of his work on the effect of the moon and winds on the tides (Dales, 1973: 33). Bede (1969: 294-295) concludes the Ecclesiastical History of the English People with the equivalent of a curriculum vitae that identifies some 70 books for which he was responsible. This assertion of ownership, in an age of anonymous and collective composition and compilation, gives his work the quality of a property. This provides readers with a basis for finding a greater coherence (and value) among these works, adding force to his method and manner of working. In this scholarly process of extending and building on the learning of others, Bede was one of the early users of the margins of his text to systematically record the sources on which he drew, ‘lest I be said to steal the saying of my elders,’ he wrote of his bibliographic practices, ‘and to compose these as my own’ (Brown, 1996: 8). At the time, sources were more often left to later readers to gloss in the margins, like a running literary puzzle, all of which eventually evolved into the footnote. Bede introduced other refinements into the process reflecting the very care he took to improve the quality of learning; as Brown notes, for example, Bede sent out his work for

8 review and comment to various knowledgeable figures out of an interest in improving it (1996: 117). This element of openness about evidence and sources, which now tends to be taken for granted, established a means of building authority that went beyond citing Scripture. It was a method available to all who wrote and, as such, was open to critique and judgment (beginning with the sources’ reliability and relevance, for example). Bede’s emphasis on exhaustive consultation both of the available books and of primary documents and letters – which involved tracking them down by letter and soliciting copies to be made of the found work – set a standard for scholarly due diligence. Again, the gains here for the intellectual properties of Bede’s work need to be understood in the context of his times. As Rowan Williams puts its, ‘he is first and foremost a theological writer of history, whose purpose is to show how God’s providential design appears in human affairs’ (2012: 13). Yet his approach constituted critical advances in methods, as he was ‘concerned to gather dependable materials’ (ibid.). Bede also offers an early defense of academic freedom when it comes to the questionable place of pagan authors in a Christian education, while warning of the rose’s thorns and the bee sting associated with honey when it came to the incautious use of Virgil, Pliny, and other classical writers (Ray, 1887). He treated Saint Jerome’s widely reported nightmare of being branded Ciceronian rather than a Christian as no more than a call for balance in reading in the classical tradition. Among the roses and nightmares, Bede provided an admirable line of scholarly continuity and coherence, from Cicero and Virgil through Jerome and Augustine to his own style and approach to history as a man of Latin Letters. As Brown summarizes it, ‘Bede’s educational manuals tap into the collective heritage of the late Roman, Patristic, and early medieval educational tradition’ (2009: 17). Bede may have held that he was modestly ‘following in the footsteps of the Fathers,’ as he put it, but then the Fathers’ own earlier path had often taken them through the glories of that classical, pagan era (cited by Ray, 2006: 11). Yet Bede was, in Roger Ray’s estimation, ‘blazing – not following – trails’ in much of what he wrote (2006: 24).5 Where Cicero was famous for drawing attention to his skills as a speaker and writer, however, Bede knew enough to make scholarly humility the best defense in advancing learning within the vanity-adverse setting he occupied.6

9 Bede expands the scope of learning

Bede expanded the scope of monastic learning through a new level of intellectual engagement with natural philosophy and scientific inquiry. While other monastics, including Augustine, expressed cautious interest in these fields, Bede brought them within the scope of the Benedictine monastery. For Bede, learning about and from the world complemented the lessons drawn from Scripture. Bede regarded the natural world as a productive source of knowledge and reverence, which was a critical combination for furthering learning’s place as a spiritual activity. Bede’s On the Nature of Things (De natura rerum), for example, is a compilation, drawing its title and form from Isidore of Seville’s early seventh-century text (borrowed, in turn, from Lucretius’s verse version from the first century), as well as bringing in elements of Pliny (Kendall& Wallis, 2010: 7). It draws, then, on the larger range of Christian and non-Christian learning, even as it opens with a prefatory verse of Augustinian caution over not losing sight of higher things:

In brief chapters, I, Bede, the servant of God Have lightly touched on the varied nature of things and on the broad ages of fleeting time. You who study the stars above, Fix you mind’s gaze, I pray, on the Light of the everlasting day. (Bede, 2010: 71)7

There is a quality to the knowledge in On the Nature of Things, however, that is not only about saving the soul of the sinner. The book is about what can be learned from this world: ‘Rains are formed from the little drops of the clouds,’ he writes in the chapter on precipitation; ‘they coalesce into bigger drops, no longer supported by the nature of air, sometimes driven by the wind, sometimes dissolved by the sun, they fall down in the form of rain to the earth’ (Bede, 1969: 33.93). This description of the weather, and other elements of the world, sought to establish the fascinating nature of things in themselves and not as the source of religious allegory or lesson: ‘The ocean’s tide follows the moon…It is seen top flow and ebb twice daily, with a delay of 3/4 plus 1/24 of one hour’ (Bede, 1969: 33.95). Bede set a further standard for the scholarly integrity of medieval monasticism, beyond the careful citing of sources, by asking fellow monks to consider (or review) how his work might be improved. He also set out, at a relatively late stage in life, to learn Greek in an effort to extend the sources he consulted beyond those of the Latin Christian West (Ray, 2006: 20-24). When he

10 was accused of heresy, a medieval occupational hazard with intellectual labour on this scale (with pagan Greeks such as Aristotle among his sources), Bede responded with a detailed refutation, establishing the proto-academic-freedom principle that such charges are best met by a public defense of the quality of the work in question. This did not preclude (Ciceronian) rhetorical flourishes in one’s defense, as Bede notes that the charges against him were ‘sung stupidly by lascivious rustics at a drinking bout’ (Ray, 1987: 10). Bede also prepared a Retraction, in the footsteps this time of Saint Augustine, in which he reconsidered and revised earlier positions that he had taken in his work. Out of a Benedictine discipline that marked time with bells and that saw Bede hard at work on his studies until his very last hours, he was able to create something more of learning that extended to the way that people in the Latin West thought about time and history. His use of Anno Domini (AD) was highly influential in structuring all of history, for those living in the West, around the moment of Christ’s birth (Deliyannis, 2001: 22).8 For all of monastic enclosure and limited travel, Bede’s educational influence extended well beyond the monasteries, influencing the schools in cathedrals and elsewhere. It may be too much to say, as Williams does, that ‘he was acknowledged quite justly – as probably the foremost European Christian intellectual of his generation’ (2012:13). Bede introduced a greater element of the intellectual life in monasticism (in an age long before intellectuals, per se, walked the streets). He opened an intellectual path to a spiritual life, and inspired others as his works were freely and widely copied and distributed among the monastic libraries and then beyond. The lure of that path was certainly felt by Alcuin of York, born the year of Bede’s passing (Coates, 1996). He was to come under Bede’s educational influence while serving as scholasticus and keeper of the library at the highly reputed cathedral school of York. Alcuin was to do much with that spirit of learning in his administrative capacity at the court of Charlemagne, seeing to it that it was spread through his world, before ending his days advancing monastic learning and literacy in his own fashion.

Alcuin of York and the further transformation of learning in and beyond monasteries

By the seventh century, the public schools that the Romans had built across their empire had largely disappeared. Only in northern Italy and parts of Spain were there what Calvin B. Kendall calls ‘scattered remnants of the liberal aristocratic educational system of the Roman empire’ (2010: 99). In or about 781, Charlemagne, King of the Franks and then Emperor of the Romans,

11 set about to remedy the situation by mounting what we now think of as the Carolingian Renaissance: ‘We are concerned,’ Charlemagne wrote in one charter that set out his ambitious cultural program, ‘to restore with diligent zeal the workshops of knowledge which, through negligence of our ancestors, have been well-nigh deserted’ (cited by Fichtenau, 1964: 87). Charlemagne sought out Alcuin of York to join his court as something of an education czar. Alcuin was considered ‘the most learned man anywhere to be found,’ in the words of Charlemagne’s biographer Einhard, a monk who himself served in the palace school that Alcuin organized for Charlemagne (Einhard, 1969: 79). Alcuin was at the time neither priest nor monk, although he was regarded, as his biographer wrote, ‘a true monk without the monk’s vows,’ and as such, was later, after serving Charlemagne for two decades, appointed abbot to the monastery of St. Martin at Tours by the emperor. Alcuin had proved himself exceedingly well-equipped to match Charlemagne’s vision for a new Rome with his own image of a new Athens, necessarily Christianized, leading to a Carolingian Renaissance that extended into the ninth century (Fichtenau, 1964: 87). The king made much of books, building a great court library and sparking a revival in classical literature, with copies of Cicero and Sallust, and the poets Lucan, Terence, Juvenal, Martial, and Horace, among others, prepared for use in the court school and beyond (Bischoff, 1994: 138). Charlemagne also dared to challenge the insularity of learning within the monasteries that dotted his kingdom. He charged that its members ‘should not be content with leading a regular and devout life, but should undertake the task of teaching those who have received from God the capacity to learn, each according to his abilities’ (cited by Knowles, 1962: 71).9 Following Charlemagne’s command, monasteries typically set up two schools. A novitiate class served those set to join the order, while an ‘extern’ school was given to educating others, principally to serve as clerks in local parish churches (Bischoff, 1994: 20). It fell to Alcuin to oversee the initiation of church and monastic schools across what became the Holy Roman Empire. To supply the schools with books that Alcuin thought essential to education, including the works of Bede, Charlemagne was prepared to cover the expense of ramping up manuscript production in monastic scriptoria across the empire, which, as Bernhard Bischoff observes, ‘began to multiply and in a creative and self-conscious way’ (1994: 20). In the spirit of Bede, Alcuin also prepared educational treatises and textbooks, with these works adding to the educational quality of monastic, court, and church libraries.

12 The palace school, on the other hand, was largely focused on preparing administrators for the court, with Latin seen as equally effective for ecclesiastical as for bureaucratic ends. To the credit of the palace school, it developed a library that has been judged by historians as ‘a glorious monument to Charlemagne’s desire to preserve the literary treasures of the past’ (Bischoff, 1994: 94). The emperor’s enthusiasm for learning was such that Alcuin found himself giving lessons to Charlemagne. As Einhard notes, under Alcuin’s tutelage, ‘the emperor spent much time and effort studying rhetoric, dialectic, and especially astrology’ (1969: 79).10 Alcuin was also involved in the education of the emperor’s sister Gisela and her daughter Rectruda, and he was quick to praise the spiritual quality of their learning in a letter to them, ‘for the highest devotion in that most holy desire for learning’ (cited by Ferrante, 1980: 10). Learning among women was common enough within the monastic cloisters, with convents possessing fine libraries, at times developed in working with nearby monks. Yet here Charlemagne’s educational vision fell short, as he reinforced the enclosure and restraint of women within monasticism, precluding them from the more publicly situated schools among church and cathedral, which set a precedent for their exclusion from the universities that followed.11 Charlemagne and Alcuin appear to have shared the ideal of a universal Christian education, informed by letters and the liberal arts. Alcuin’s oversight led to lasting similarities among church, court, and monastery schools as part of a coordinated Carolingian education program (Jaeger, 1994: 26). The progress made in the teaching of astronomy provides a good instance of what was at stake in this educational initiative. What was taught includes a mix of classical and Christian perspectives, involving a computus in which the relative position of sun, moon and zodiac are calculated within the structure of the heavens using a combination of algebra and geometry (McCluskey, 1993: 144). Bruce Eastwood points out how a revitalized Roman astronomy of Pliny and Martianus was taught alongside that of Bede and Isidore of Seville: ‘Astronomy in Carolingian Europe was committed to reasoned and factual accounts of the heavens, and this view brought a revival of planetary astronomy, which had languished in the West since the fifth century’ (1993: 177). In a rough sense, instruction in astronomy, which was ‘concerned with the selection of precise and concrete information,’ in Eastwood’s terms (1993: 177), was part of a larger displacement of personal salvation as the singular goal of Christian education, in favour of more secular and public inquiries into the nature of things. In such a climate, pervaded by this Bedean spirit of learning, the monastic libraries came to be stocked

13 with a richer array of works, including Pliny, Boethius, Maritanus Capella, Isidore of Seville, and, of course, Bede.

Alcuin as Abbot After retiring from public life, Alcuin assumed the position of abbot at the Tours monastery. In his work with the monks, he devoted himself to advancing monastic scholarship, still paying heed to the lessons of Bede. Alcuin took great care, for example, in selecting the source texts that served as exemplars for the scribes to copy in producing new editions of works to be spread to other libraries. He was strict about the standards of orthography and punctuation adhered to by his scribes. He pushed for greater clarity of letter forms, leading to the development of a very page-efficient and readable Caroline miniscule (West, 1893: 70). His efforts to produce uniform Latin editions of key works furthered the sense of a broader intellectual community across Christendom in the West, a community given to producing and sharing common – and commonly held – manuscript texts. The very focus on getting these texts right, arriving at accurate and fair copies, that would be all the more readable, was to treat them as (intellectual) property in their exacting distinctiveness. While Bede advanced the notion of authorship as a property of the text – and certainly the works of the Church Fathers, such as Jerome and Augustine, were thought of in terms of their authorship – the texts were considered collectively owned by the larger monastic community, not just because private property was forbidden among nuns and monks, but because so many were involved in copying, illuminating, glossing, and labouring over the production of these texts. As a reflection of this, Alcuin also instructed the scribes at Tours on how they were engaged in a valued public service as they attended to the quality of the manuscripts produced. Above the scriptorium entrance he had inscribed an exhortation to care and accuracy in scribal work that concluded: ‘Writing books is better than planting vines, for he who plants a vine serves his belly, but he who writes a book serves his soul’ (West, 1893: 72).12 This is no small statement from an abbot who also sought to restore Benedictine rigour to his monastery, given that Benedict made no provision for the acquisition or copying of books in his Rule, for all the attention given to reading in the daily routine. Alcuin was taking a stand on the sacred contribution of scholarly labour within the Benedictine monastery. In this regard, Knowles credits Alcuin with beginning ‘the great age of copying of Latin manuscripts, both patristic and classical’ (1962: 76).13 Here

14 was a further infusion of learning back into monasticism, inspired by the take up of learning in the larger world and the close association of court and monastery at this time. While it was not long following Charlemagne’s death that the Carolingian Renaissance was eclipsed by unrest and violence, upending the emperor’s best educational efforts, the legacy of texts, along with their new standards of scholarship, managed to preserve a good part of the learning, principally within monastic libraries. If Carolingian education had been directed toward the training of ecclesiastical and administrative classes, it also had wider effects, both on the reach of this learning and on making learned questions, in Margaret Gibson’s judgment, ‘a matter for popular concern’ (1975: 13). The rolling out of an empire-scale educational system was no small feat, of course, but it may strike readers of this journal as a modest enough contribution to critical literacy, especially given the degree to which it was a state operation avant l’état. Yet for the medieval West, it jump-started the expansion of learning, introducing new and old sources and ways of studying the world. It did so for a much wider public, with the cathedral schools and monasteries eventually reaching out to poor scholars who could pay no fees.14 A distinct educational economy was established under the patronage of Charlemagne’s court. Part of that economy was devoted to the production and circulation of intellectual properties that were valued for their learned qualities and their contributions to learning. The learning undoubtedly served court and church, yet it did more than that. It made a public enterprise of inquiring after the ideas of others and questions as far reaching as the position of the stars, in ways that would return in different ways in successive generations, and remaining with us today.

Monastic labour and intellectual labour in and beyond the monastery

The work of Bede and Alcuin reflects a change in the nature of intellectual labour in the Early Middle Ages. Jacques Le Goff identifies how ‘the Benedictine Rule imposes labor on monks in two forms, manual and intellectual and both are a form of penitence, in conformity with the ideology of the time’ (1980:110). Le Goff also reminds us that medieval monks and nuns were penitent by vocation, with their manual labour intended to reenact ‘the Fall, the divine curse’ (1980: 80). They would, as well, do penance for others outside of the monastery in return for donated land and other goods. The copying of manuscripts in monastic scriptoria or cathedral was subject to a penitential arithmetic by which each word copied was said to help to reduce the time spent in purgatory.

15 In this, there is what Le Goff describes as ‘an evolution from the penitential labor of the Bible and early Middle Ages toward a rehabilitation of labor, which in the end became a means of salvation’ (1980: xii). Le Goff, however, places this historic shift squarely in the twelfth century, with the transformation in the newly formed towns and cities of the Latin West, some four centuries after Bede’s considerable contribution to learning had recognized. Le Goff is reluctant to grant learned nuns and monks of the Early Middle Ages any standing as intellectuals, if only because they were also otherwise engaged, as he notes: ‘The work of the mind was only one of their activities. It was not an end in itself, but was organized around the rest of their lives; it was directed toward God by the Rule’ (1993: 5). Indeed, given his place historically within the monastery, Bede cannot be readily characterized as an intellectual. Still, he seems a remarkable stand-in as an eighth-century prototype for the late medieval intellectual by profession, as Le Groff defines him: ‘A man whose profession it was to write and to teach – and usually both at the same time – a man who, professionally, acted as professor and scholar, in short, an intellectual,' to which Le Groff adds, ‘that man only appears with the [the emergence of] towns’ (1993: 6). For his part, Bede was clearly an exceptional figure, yes. Yet, he had his followers and admirers, both within and outside the monastery, like Alcuin. They were able, thanks to Bede’s example in terms of intellectual labour, to make something more of the work of the mind, as it was directed toward the learning of others, if still very much in the service of God (as was intellectual life to be in the Christian West for many centuries to come). Bede’s intellectual monastic legacy is found not only in Alcuin, but also, in Hildegard of Bingen, Anselm of Canterbury, Bernard of Clairvaux, and many others, if of more modest achievement. For these figures, at least, the intellectual work that they produced serves as evidence that the life of the mind was more than a ‘fleeting, always secondary aspect of their function,’ as Le Goff holds of monasticism in refusing its claims to the intellectual life (1993: 5). What made this learning possible economically was the bequeathal of land to the monasteries by the local nobility, with the monasteries becoming skilled at estate management and able to hire field-workers from outside of their membership. The Rule had always allowed for a number of hours to be spent reading each day, and some, such as Bede, were bound to take this beyond reading liturgy and memorizing psalms, envisioned by the Rule. The institutional properties of monasticism – endowment, discipline, libraries – enabled Bede to make it clear, through the example of his own life, how salvation could be pursued not just through penitence

16 but through learning in the service of others. In establishing the intellectual value of learning, in this way, Bede and others were slowly transforming literacy’s value and contribution within monasticism. Yet as the value of these properties was recognized, they continued to be treated as a distinctive sort of good, supported by the traditional understanding that knowledge was not a commodity to be bought and sold, which had both classical (as with Socrates) and Scriptural roots (Post, Giocarnis & Kay, 1955: 218). Knowledge was, in the Christian tradition, a gift of God. As it was freely given, so it was to be freely shared, to paraphrase Matthew (10.8), which well suited the spirit of monasticism. In some ways, we are suggesting, current controversies over access to research reflects a wrestling with this tradition.15 It also bears noting, however, that the Benedictine monastery was not a learned academy. Although during the ninth century, Bagdad’s House of Wisdom thrived as an institution devoted to learning (al-Khalili, 2011), there was no such house of learning in the West until the first universities appeared toward the end of the twelfth century. What Bede and others demonstrated was that a life of the mind, disciplined and regulated in habit and spirit, could take hold in an institution that was sponsored by, but operated at a remove from, the world, even as it had its influence on that world. This institution was distributed across the countryside and yet tightly networked, holding its intellectual stock in common, with always a few members working hard to enhance and expand. The sheltered and endowed refuge of monasticism gave rise to a modest life of learning, long before there was a large-scale, secular, public market for it (apart from the exception of the Carolingian Renaissance in the eighth century), which took shape in the West with the twelfth-century emergence of the town. Part of the transformation that took place within monasticism, in the centuries following Bede, was that this concern with learning started to enhance an abbey’s reputation as divinely inspired and regular (in the sense of regulated by the Rule). As such, it was all the more worthy of bequeathal and gift from the local nobility. In the way that Bede represents an eighth-century breakthrough for the learned finding their place within monasticism, Alcuin of York – influenced by Bede’s learning – brought about a second transformation later in the century that affected learning both outside of the monastery and within. In looking to the work of Bede and Alcuin in the medieval transformation of learning, there is a glimpse, we trust, of how this form of learning, disciplined and endowed, led to literate works that were treated, in effect, as intellectual properties. The careful labour of Bede and

17 Alcuin resulted in works that were widely valued, copied and illuminated, enabling and inspiring others to produce works reflecting both this greater care with the scholarly quality of this learning and its opening to the world. While parallels exist between the discipline and financing of study in medieval monasticism and the contemporary university, the two radically differ, of course, in the degrees of freedom and openness allowed in the production of intellectual property. Yet there is something shared, as well, in that very sense of being engaged in a collective enterprise. There are parallels with the monastic retreat from the world, in the insular and academic circulation of knowledge, and with the opening of these works, reflecting ideals around an equality of access to knowledge and its collective ownership as a public good. To return to our opening theme in this paper, if today’s institutions of learning are increasingly open to the world, they are beset by intellectual-property tensions over the circulation of research and scholarship. In the digital era, the structure of this particular knowledge economy is beginning to strike many people as unduly restricting the circulation, and thus the value, of scholarly work. It is encouraging to see, for example, the British government’s commitment to make all publicly supported research publicly available within the next two years, if not without stirring up some controversy (Sample, 2012). To put it all too briefly, while scholarly publishing has real costs, we suspect that the $8 billion spent annually on scholarly publishing in science, technology and medicine alone (Ware, 2009) could provide far greater access to far more people, if the stakeholders involved rethought the principles, structures, mechanisms (and history) by which the sponsorship of, and access to, this knowledge is provided. This is where critical literacy has an important contribution to make, we are suggesting, by contributing to a broader understandings of the intellectual properties of learning as a particular form of public good. In this, critical literacy needs to help people explore the rights and liberties associated with a long tradition of sponsored learning and the circulation of knowledge.16 This history is marked by gains, such as those recounted and celebrated here (if somewhat uncritically), as well as shortfalls and travesties (for, indeed, not all monks, nuns, and scholars are saints). Our belief is that a critical understanding of literacy, for the digital era, can benefit from a greater regard for intellectual property as a way of thinking the role of the university in using public and private resources in creating value, sharing knowledge, and advancing learning

Notes 1 These rights include the institution’s tax-exempt status, the teacher exception for copyright ownership (allowing instructors, rather than the employers, to retain copyright), fair use for private study and critical review, the patent exception (allowing unlicensed use for research), and publisher agreements that provide open access to research for developing countries (Willinsky, 2006). As well, a long history of public and philanthropic financial support for learning contributes to the distinct economic standing of the resulting intellectual property (Edwards, 2006; Lomask, 1976). 2 See also Washburn, 2006; Slaughter and Rhoades, 2009; Nussbaum, 2010; and Tuchman, 2011. 3 Thomas Cahill refers to this specific Irish development as ‘a kind of university city to which came thousands of hopeful students first from all over Ireland, then from England, and at last from everywhere in Europe’ (1995: 157). 4 Although Ceolfrid did trade ‘the magnificently worked copy of the Cosmographers [mapmakers] which Benedict had bought in Rome’ with King Aldrid ‘for eight hides of land by the River Fresca,’ it was a charitable act intended to support of the monastery of St. Paul (Bede, 1965: 201). 5 See also T. R. Eckenrode (1977) on Bede’s original theories that range from ocean tides to historical dialectics. 6 ‘In the cloister there is hardly any room for vanity,’ is how twelfth-century abbot Philip of Harvengt generously puts it (cited in Leclercq, 1982: 198). 7 Augustine objected to the curiosi who ‘look into spiritual matters with a terrestrial eye,’ where Bede is careful to look into terrestrial matters with a similarly aligned eye (cited in Newhauser, 1988: 111). 8 The introduction of Anno Domini (AD) is credited to the sixth-century monk Dionysius Exiguus who used this device in developing a table of Easter dates across the years (Teres, 1984: 177-188). 9 As for the curriculum, a capitulary from 789 specified that ‘in every monastery, instruction shall be given in psalms, musical notation, chant, the computation of years and seasons, and in grammar; and all books used shall be carefully corrected’ (Knowles, 1962: 72). 10 Charlemagne, in turn, was prepared to hold the monasteries to a higher standard, as he complained in one letter about writings ‘from a number of monasteries’ that was marked by ‘an uncultivated language caused by the neglect of learning’ (cited in Andersson, 2010: 365). Andersson (2010: 367) notes that the title Charlemagne the Corrector was but a legend, although his reputation for learning was not. 11 A capitulary ratified by Charlemagne in 789 reads: ‘No abbess should presume to leave her convent without our permission…and on no account let them dare to write winileodas (songs for a friend), or send them from the convent’ (cited by Horner, 2001: 35). 12 Jacques Le Goff makes much of these uniform editions and new script: ‘It was the basis of a

19 civilization, a development which gradually changed the way knowledge was transmitted and taught…the basis for the establishment of the universities’ (2003: 13). 13 Knowles also credits Alcuin’s emphasis on copying, thus: ‘the gradual accumulation of clearly (and therefore correctly) written books was of inestimable value when the more comprehensive revival came two centuries later’ (1962: 76). 14 The support for poor scholars among cathedral schools was formalized by the Third Lateran Council in 1179, which provided a benefice for a Master to instruct such students as well as the church clergy at no charge (Post, Giocarnis & Kay, 1955: 200). 15 The problem this tradition posed for the early universities was resolved by distinguishing between the fairly compensated labour of teaching and the knowledge itself, which remained free (Post, Giocarnis & Kay, 1955: 233). 16 For our part, we are not only working on this history of learning, but conducting research on the uptake of this new access to scholarly work, among professionals (O’Keeffe, Willinsky & Maggio, 2011; Provençal, 2011) and interested readers, in the case of Wikipedia (Willinsky, 2009), as well as working with a group developing open source software for publishers of journals and books, through the Public Knowledge Project (http://pkp.sfu.ca).

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