The Giant That Nobody Knows
UNIVERSITIES
(See Cover)
A tide of rising expectations in learning is sweeping the U.S. At the turn of the century, universal grade-school education was considered a high enough achievement, as was a high school diploma by World War II. Now the day is fast approaching when some form of college-level learning will be the national norm--and the M.A. today carries little more prestige than the bachelor's degree did a few years ago. The burden of quenching this thirst for learning is being borne primarily by the nation's huge public systems of higher education, which are expanding facilities, establishing branches, and blanketing their states with new campuses in an unprecedented explosion of growth.
Public universities have been a vital force in America's higher learning since the Morrill Land-Grant Act of 1862, which gave every state federal lands to support the creation of colleges devoted to vocational training and agricultural research. But these schools have grown faster in the past five years than in any similar period in their history, and in enrollment the public colleges and universities today clearly outstrip the nation's 1,200 private ones. As recently as 1950, the two sectors of higher education had almost equal enrollments; today more than two-thirds of all college students are on a public campus. Educators estimate that in the next decade eight of every ten students entering college will be on a public campus.
Texas-Size Growth. Even established public multiversities are building in frantic fashion. The University of California (current enrollment: 95,320, which will grow to 140,000 by 1975) adds 8,000 students a year--the equivalent of Yale's student body. At its crowded, overgrown Berkeley campus, steelworkers clinging to an open I beam are as much a part of the Sproul Plaza scene as are the hippie protesters. Texas-size is the right phrase for that state's major public university, which has spread to ten campuses in seven cities with 52,631 students, 1,500 teachers.
Nowhere is growth more dramatic than in New York, which did not even have a state university 20 years ago. Today the State University of New York (known familiarly as S.U.N.Y. and pronounced soonee) is the fastest growing, best-financed and most ambitious system of public higher education in the land. Enrollment has grown from 47,634 in 1960 to 139,149 now, and will reach 290,400 in seven years. In the past six years, New York has spent $1 billion on construction; nearly $2 billion will be spent by 1975. This month, S.U.N.Y. Chancellor Samuel Gould, 57, a low-keyed visionary with a deep conviction that his school is destined for greatness, will go before the state legislature with a request for a 1968 budget of $479.1 million.
Bucolic Aggie. Thriving new public universities are also popping up in other unexpected places. In Massachusetts, where private education has long gone unchallenged, the state university has burgeoned from a bucolic "aggie" school with 1,788 students in 1947 to 11,784 today; its Amherst campus glistens with nearly $200 million worth of postwar buildings. The University of Wisconsin suddenly finds its own huge enrollment (54,997 students) nearly matched by the combined enrollment of the Wisconsin State Universities' nine campuses, most of which were teachers colleges a few years ago. Illinois is alive with four new, growing regional universities enrolling 36,707 students.
The rise of the public university is not merely in buildings, budgets and bodies. It is growing just as sharply in its brainpower. Good students who might once have shunned public institutions are now competing to get in. The University of Massachusetts, for example, had 17,000 applications for this year's freshman class, could take only the best 3,000. Among the 99 members of the National Association of State Universities and Land-Grant Colleges, more than 80% of the current enrollment ranked in the top half of their high school classes--and nearly a third were in the top tenth. A single D on the four-year high school record of a California student can kill his chances of getting into the university.
Best of Both. Although salaries at state universities still lag behind those at the top private schools, the best public institutions can now get the best professors--a fact witnessed by academic recognition of Berkeley as a finer all-round school on the graduate level than Harvard. Massachusetts now pays full professors an average $17,300--and President John Lederle is an aggressive raider of private-university faculties. Among his recent catches: University of Chicago Mathematician Marshall Harvey Stone, N.Y.U. Botanist Oswald Tippo, Yale Physicist Robert Gluckstern and lohns Hopkins Astrophysicist John D. Strong, who brought $1,000,000 in equipment with him. "We're not trying to create an Ivy League college or a Big Ten here," says Lederle. "We'll take the best of both and do better."
To handle the overflow from increasingly selective universities, the states have converted nearly every teachers college in the U.S. into a broader four-year liberal arts institution. The state-college system in California, with 18 campuses in operation and four more in the works, has 142,000 students, thus is twice as large as the nine-campus University of California. Some of these colleges, such as freewheeling San Francisco State and San Diego State, justifiably claim that they are better than many a public university elsewhere--and, in fact, are bitter about their lack of university status. Pennsylvania maintains a strong system of 13 state colleges (including famed Slippery Rock), which have grown from 15,979 students ten years ago to 47,987 today.
But even the growth of state universities and colleges is not enough to handle the current enrollment pressure. New two-year junior colleges are now opening at a rate of 65 a year--well above the 1966 rate of one a week. Since 1960, enrollment has almost tripled in the J.C.s to 1,650,000. California has 80 of them, all open to every high school graduate free of charge--and 72% of all freshmen in the state are now in one of them. Florida enrolls nearly 100,000 students in its 26 J.C.s; Illinois has completed 27 of them for 82,000 students, is planning 13 more. Texas has 68 spotted throughout the state, and Dallas alone is planning seven campuses to handle 70,000 students.
Modeling & Mortuary. The junior colleges serve a number of academic functions. They provide a basic general education for the two-year student, give thousands of late-blooming youngsters a second shot at qualifying for admission to a four-year school, train others in vocational skills, bring countless adults new cultural opportunities and continuing education. At Florida's huge Miami-Dade Junior College, 23,000 students are pursuing both academic courses and a host of vocational interests, ranging from fashion modeling for women to flight training for men. The school even has the nation's largest mortuary-science program--150 students--with facilities to work on five corpses at a time.
Building schools to accommodate everyone who can benefit from more education--and almost everyone figures that he can--creates a pressing need for overall planning in order to avoid conflicts about where campuses should be built and how the available money should be shared. Forty states now have coordinating boards that theoretically control all forms of higher education. The tidiest system of them all is still that of California, where former President Clark Kerr's master plan is continually reviewed by a coordinating council that includes representatives of the state's private colleges. The Kerr plan assigns clear functions to three levels of state institutions: the university (which takes the upper 12 1/2% of high school graduates), the state colleges (the upper third), and the junior colleges (everyone else). Each level has its own governing board, such as the powerful university regents, but all yield to funding decisions of the state legislature and the Governor.
21st Century Preview. New York has chosen a different way. While California educators prefer the masterly simplicity of their own plan, Clark Kerr considers New York's program "the most important single development in higher education today." It is working so well, observes Harvard Sociologist David Riesman, that New York "is well on its way to overtaking California in the quality of its public higher education." Justifiably proud, New York Governor Nelson Rockefeller boasts: "If you want to preview the American university of the 21st century, look at what is happening in higher education at S.U.N.Y. today."
What New York did, in 1948, was to lump every unit of public higher education in the state* into one vast multiversity. By the standards of the past, S.U.N.Y. hardly seems like a university at all. Instead of one central campus, it has 59: four major university centers (at Stony Brook, Buffalo, Binghamton and Albany), ten four-year colleges of arts and science, two medical centers, seven specialized colleges in such fields as forestry and labor relations, six two-year agricultural and technical schools, and 30 junior colleges.
"I can't think of a single possibility for education in this country," says Chancellor Gould, "that doesn't exist in the state university." Collectively, its campuses offer thousands of courses, ranging from the most abstruse branches of nuclear physics to secretarial training. The university also offers full-credit courses through a television network that reaches 80% of the state's population. On a given day, the Maritime College's 12,000-ton Empire State IV, a refitted troop transport, churns out toward the open sea; a lab class in horticulture at Cobleskill crossbreeds African violets. Future fashion designers cut patterns in Manhattan's garment district at the Fashion Institute of Technology, while future policemen seek an edge over criminals by studying at a criminology lab on Long Island.
Rawness with Class. What unifies S.U.N.Y. is a sense of dynamic incompleteness--"rawness with class," as one educational analyst puts it. Almost every campus is torn up by construction; professors frequently teach in incomplete facilities that suggest the primitive educational ideal of Mark Hopkins at one end of a log and a student at the other. At the state college in Plattsburgh this fall, 350 girls had to sleep on the floors of their doorless new dorm for more than a week. New York, observes University of Missouri Vice President Charles Brice Ratchford, "is trying to compress into ten what every other university has taken 100 years to do."
Under the benevolent guidance of Gould, however, the goal of S.U.N.Y. is not a chain of uniform institutes cast from a single mold. "The worst thing that could happen to this university," he says, "is that one campus would become like another." Today, at least, that is far from the case, and the variety of S.U.N.Y. is amply exhibited by the different mood and spirit of its four university centers.
Lustrous Stars. At Stony Brook, which has so many bulldozers at work that students call the campus "mud with purpose," a major goal is excellence in science, especially physics. With Brookhaven National Laboratories only a few miles away, President John Toll, who built the University of Maryland's physics department into one of the best, has been able to attract lustrous stars. Brightest is Nobel Laureate C. N. Yang, formerly of Princeton's Institute for Advanced Study, who happily accepted a $45,000 salary to take a state-endowed chair in theoretical particle physics. He thus earns $5,000 more than Chancellor Gould, $15,000 more than President Toll. Another catch: Johns Hopkins Biologist H. Bentley Glass.
Toll, whose temporary office still lacks a ceiling, also sees Stony Brook as an academic servant of growing Long Island. It already has a full-time staff assigned to providing technical advice to the island's maritime, electronics and aircraft industries. Other experts provide nearby towns with much needed advice in long-range community planning. By 1975, its enrollment of 5,000 will swell to 17,000, 40% of whom will be in graduate work--another lure for top professors. Literary Critic Alfred Kazin, a professor in Stony Brook's excellent English department, finds a "tremendous excitement" in its "happy, creative looseness--this is a place where the time is right."
Shaking up the Structure. Stony Brook is a campus built from nothing in woods and meadow, now surrounded by housing tracts. Buffalo, by contrast, was an established private university (founded in 1846) that was verging on bankruptcy and was taken over entirely by S.U.N.Y. in 1962. President Martin Meyerson, a former acting chancellor at Berkeley, is trying to shake up the traditional academic structure to create "a public model for higher education."
To that end, Meyerson has divided the university into eight major interdisciplinary faculties: Arts and Letters, Educational Studies, Health Sciences, Natural and Mathematical Sciences, Applied Social Sciences and Administration, Engineering and Applied Sciences, Law and Jurisprudence, Social Sciences and Philosophy. Each is headed by a provost who has full authority to hire, fire and plan budgets. Meyerson encourages his provosts to sign up nonspecialized instructors who fit no departmental niche but may be top flight teachers. Reaching outside normal academic ranks for his provosts, Meyerson picked former Harper's and Horizon Editor Eric Larrabee to head the faculty of Arts and Letters.
To handle Buffalo's bright students (more than 85% of this year's freshmen are from the top fifth of their high school class), Meyerson is planning 20 subordinate nondegree colleges for commuters as well as residents. Each will have its own master and will offer courses and social activities appealing to students of a particular lifestyle. At the moment, 21,735 students are crowded onto Buffalo's old 178-acre campus, and enrollment is expected to reach 41,000 within six years. That is no problem. S.U.N.Y. is about to build an entirely new 1,200-acre campus for Buffalo in suburban Amherst. Designed by Skidmore, Owings & Merrill with preliminary plans including a mile-long central building, the project will cost about $600 million.
The Public Swarthmore. At Binghamton, the goal of President Bruce Dearing is to maintain the humanistic emphasis of a small, lively liberal arts college (3,166 students) even while developing a full-scale graduate program. S.U.N.Y. acquired the school in 1950 from Syracuse University, swiftly built it into a school often described as "the public Swarthmore." Dearing, who taught English at Swarthmore for ten years, is convinced that Binghamton can combine quality with quantitative growth, but concedes that he will "start dragging my heels" when enrollment approaches 10,000.
More than half of this year's Harpur freshmen were in the top tenth of their graduating class. The school is especially strong in Renaissance studies under Humanities Chairman Aldo Bernardo, who passed up an Ivy League Italian Chair from his alma mater, Brown University, to stay with S.U.N.Y. In just four years, Music Chairman Philip Nelson has added 24 teachers, given his department a national reputation. Such performing artists as Pianist Jean Casadesus, the Guarneri String Quartet (see Music) and the New York Woodwind Quintet all teach at Harpur.
Miami Beach North. The Albany center, which began as a state normal school in 1844 and is the oldest institution in the S.U.N.Y. system, is striving for problem-solving competence in the social sciences. One example is its new Graduate School of Criminal Justice, headed by Richard Myren, a chemist with a law degree. He is collecting an interdisciplinary team of sociologists, psychologists, historians and lawyers to apply their combined knowledge to the problems of crime, the courts, prisons and police. Declares President Evan Collins: "We're in a position to bring in the best faculty in the country--and we're doing it."
More than 10,000 students applied for the 1,500 freshman openings this year at Albany. Part of the appeal is the most striking physical setting of any S.U.N.Y. campus. Designed by Edward Durell Stone, even down to the burgundy carpets in the student lounges, it cost $110 million and features four 23-story towers, overlooking a central cluster of academic buildings within a columned walkway. A few student cynics dub it "Miami Beach North," but Governor Rockefeller proudly orders pilots of his private plane to fly over the campus when bringing VIPS to his Albany offices.
The Free University. Nothing symbolizes S.U.N.Y.'s willingness to experiment more than the new undergraduate college that will open with 75 students this fall on the former F. Ambrose Clark estate in Old Westbury, L.I. To head it, Gould recruited Harris Wofford, former associate director of the Peace Corps, brought in 13 S.U.N.Y. students to live with the planners and offer advice on every step. Wofford is planning a series of Oxford-like small colleges, each with its own curriculum and philosophy. The pilot college will center around a work-study program in which public service will be integrated with classes. Another college will be based on a fusion of what Wofford calls "the four most important professions of our time": teaching, law, medicine and theology. One of the aims is to "constitutionalize the free university" and give students an education based upon what they, rather than the faculty, regard as contemporary and relevant.
Running S.U.N.Y. is very nearly an impossible job; Sam Gould was hospitalized a year ago for total physical exhaustion, and his aides constantly worry about his health. He spends about 20 nights a month away from his Albany headquarters, mainly traveling the state's highways on visits to S.U.N.Y. campuses (never, by his own choice, without a formal invitation). Gould once called his school "the giant that nobody knows"--a phrase that fits him equally well. Few students have met him, and not many professors. Even those who work closely with him meet an inner reserve that limits intimacy, despite his gentle, courteous ways.
Understanding Mistakes. According to Buffalo's Meyerson, Gould does not have "the arrogance sometimes associated with the heads of large educational institutions." Gould willingly admits to a lack of executive ruthlessness. He rarely fires anyone, prefers instead to find a disappointing subordinate some other job, partly because he is "not assured of my own invincibility--I understand that people make mistakes, and I think I understand why." Yet even though he leaves day-to-day administration to S.U.N.Y.'s campus presidents, Gould has an unerring eye for small detail. He delights his far-flung administrators by sending them congratulatory notes after a job well done, written in his tiny script on the chancellor's cream-colored official stationery. Always style-conscious, he ordered the university's drab catalogues redone. He also initiated warm personal letters of congratulations to all new students. He sometimes welcomes them, for example, into that "great band of comrades who share an enthusiastic desire to acquire knowledge and wisdom."
As Gould views the job of chancellor, it is not to rule but to reign, not to control but to coordinate. He gives the presidents of his units full authority to try any programs they want--providing that the changes do not affect the institution's basic charter. Although not a model executive himself, Gould has a rare knack for finding men who are--and convincing them to come to S.U.N.Y. Since his own inauguration he has installed no fewer than 23 campus presidents. Above all, Gould's job is to dream and plan--and to communicate his vision to others. "I try to keep reminding the university of what it is," he says, "and of what it's supposed to be, to give it a sense of its mission. This job is almost a kind of evangelism."
Like many of his own students, Sam Gould represents the first generation of his family to seek and get a college degree. He grew up in Connecticut's Housatonic valley, where his Lithuanian-born father was a wholesaler of paper, twine and groceries in the small towns of Ansonia and Shelton. It was not a wealthy family, and Sam worked at odd jobs to save money for college--only to discover that his father, in hopes of doubling the investment, had lost it all on a stock-market fling.
Nonetheless, Gould worked his way through Bates College in Maine. He anchored a debate team that won the Eastern Intercollegiate Debate League championship against competition from Yale and Penn. He was president of the dramatic society and a varsity track man--for his 50-sec. time in the quarter-mile leg of the mile relay, he says, "they wouldn't even give me a suit today"--was a cheerleader, class-day and commencement orator. With all that activity, Gould tutored children at a private school, worked part time in the Bates president's office and still managed a B average. When he graduated in 1930, the campus yearbook named him both "most talented" and "best dressed" man in the class.*
Radio Appreciation. With his college savings of $500, Gould went to England in 1930 for four months to study literature at Oxford; the Depression forced him to return home and find work. After a year of boredom as a telephone-company traffic manager, he accepted a job teaching English at a Hartford high school. To make ends meet, he took a summer job as an announcer, producer and scriptwriter for Hartford's radio station WTHT, then organized a radio-appreciation course for his students. In 1934, while on a year's leave studying English at Cambridge, he met a young Finnish woman, Laura Ohman; they corresponded, were married two years later. (They have one son, Richard, who studied at Harvard and Berkeley, is now assistant curator at New York City's American Museum of Natural History.) Gould completed his credits for an M.A. at N.Y.U., started Ph.D. studies at Harvard, but financial pressures forced him to give them up.
During World War II, Gould ended up as a lieutenant commander in charge of Admiral Arthur Radford's office aboard the carrier U.S.S. Yorktown in the Pacific. In 1946, he was hired to set up a radio, TV and theater section for Boston University. It was a demanding job. Gould had to recruit a faculty, teach 18 hours a week--and start an educational FM station. He also found time to co-author a book on Training the Local Announcer. Gould then spent two years as assistant to B.U. President Harold Case, learning some of the subtleties of running 15 schools within the university--a handy foretaste, in miniature, of his S.U.N.Y. job. Eventually he decided that he did not want to "always be a No. 2 man," and in 1954 accepted the presidency of Ohio's Antioch College.
Formal in Underwear. Gould found his five years as head of Antioch "a wearying experience." He endeared himself to the faculty by defending an art instructor accused by McCarthy-era congressional investigators of Communist ties, and by fighting against loyalty oaths required for federal scholarships. He was also highly successful at fund raising--a chore he detests. But then he alienated the tightly knit Antioch community by becoming the first college president to live in an off-campus house. Antioch's liberty-minded students were appalled by his warning to sloppy dressers that they ought to be "shaved, shod and shorn." There was a feeling, recalls one college official, that "Sam would be too formal, even in his underwear, for Antioch."
Gould was not much happier as the first chancellor of the University of California's campus at Santa Barbara--a job he took in 1959 at the request of Clark Kerr, who had once taught economics at Antioch. Gould managed to modify the school's reputation as a playground for social dilettantes, urging students to bring "more than their surfboards" to Santa Barbara. He also launched an overseas study program, and patched up the school's community relations. Yet Gould felt restricted by the dominance of the central Berkeley administration over the entire system.
Man, Time & Conviction. A seemingly larger challenge loomed in 1962, when Gould was offered the presidency of New York City's television station WNDT, which had grandiose plans of becoming a showcase example of what could be done with educational TV. "I was misled about the job," says Gould sadly. He found the station deeply in debt, spent most of his time fund raising and fighting with labor unions instead of pursuing plans for better programming. He also ran into a volatile and imaginative professional broadcaster in his general manager, Richard Heffner, who was determined to control the creative side of WNDT himself. Pushed too far, Gould finally fired Heffner, an act that drew upon him a storm of press criticism. Heffner, who suffered just as much, now says: "My historical sense prevents me from taking too much away from Sam Gould. With S.U.N.Y., the man, the time and the conviction all came together."
When Gould was offered the S.U.N.Y. position, it looked to him like "absolutely the worst job in the world." Neither the legislature nor the Governor had until then done much about building up the university; the previous president, Thomas H. Hamilton, felt so powerless that he left to take over the University of Hawaii.* S.U.N.Y.'s trustees spent nearly two years looking for a replacement, ran fruitlessly through 140 names before thinking of Gould. More prophetic (and optimistic) than most, Gould became convinced that "this place had to be important in the future of New York--it just had to be." He exacted a pledge from Governor Rockefeller and the trustees that he would be given solid support and considerable freedom, then said yes. True to his word, Rockefeller found ways to provide the essential underpinning of S.U.N.Y.'s growth: massive funding.
No one is more aware than Gould that he has not solved his multiversity's problems in just 3 1/2 years. He knows that some of his units do not yet have college-level quality and that his students are too often right when they complain about the irrelevance of their courses. Much of the university, he thinks, is still more concerned about whether a student has the right number of courses for a degree than whether he has really learned anything. And he is not sure where he is going to find the 3,100 new full professors his system will need by 1975.
Quart for a Gallon. S.U.N.Y., of course, is not alone in having unsolved troubles. All across the U.S., the massive expansion of state systems has created massive problems. The situation, says U.C.L.A. Chancellor Franklin Murphy, is "like a man trying to fill a gallon jug with not much more than a quart of water." Armies of undergraduates are demanding more teaching attention; at the same time, governments are pleading for more research, which requires new emphasis on graduate studies, and the cities are begging for ideas to help check their spiraling decay.
As public systems try to do everything at once, they face the danger of diluting their quality. A college does not automatically become better by renaming it a university, and a doctoral program without an adequate faculty is worse than none. Yet countless ill-equipped colleges are clamoring for the prestige of university status, and Harvard's Riesman rightly sneers at the spectacle of "150 Avises trying to become a Hertz."
Political pressures in North Carolina last year catapulted four onetime teachers colleges into "regional universities." But they are still essentially teachers colleges, and they merely pose a threat to the financial support that has made the University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill the best public institution in the South. Spreading resources equally throughout a state is no real solution. "Our great institutions are a great national asset," warns Clark Kerr, who is heading a Carnegie-financed study of higher education in the U.S. "You've got to concentrate talent to make it effective, since talents energize each other."
As a public trust, public universities are inevitably drawn into state politics. Legislators frequently badger university presidents to get rid of hippies, protesters and Communists. Former University of Missouri President Elmer Ellis recalls that for years he had to fight harder to get money because lawmakers complained about "all those Reds" on his faculty. All he had, argued Ellis, was one lone socialist--but the funds come easier now that the teacher has left to take a $4,500 raise at Wayne State University. Political considerations also kept the University of Massachusetts from putting its new medical school on either its Amherst campus, where it would have complemented other departments, or in Boston, where it could have tied in with other strong med schools. In a pointless compromise, it will be located halfway between the two, at Worcester.
Standards from Yale. Even some public educators are worried that state schools may be getting so powerful that they will squeeze out the many struggling private colleges or deplete the strength of the better ones--all of which face an economic crisis (TIME cover, June 23). Educators agree that the two sectors need each other. The University of California may have set high standards for all state schools, notes Clark Kerr, "but we got those standards from private institutions like Harvard and Yale."
Public higher education also faces a financial squeeze, despite the vast sums of money poured into it by state legislatures. Enrollment, salaries and other costs are rising even faster than income. Most state schools have sharply raised tuition--S.U.N.Y., an exception, has stayed at $400 for in-state students since 1963--and public educators argue that they would negate their responsibility to the community if they were to freeze out low-income applicants. Since state governments are often taxing to what seems the limit now, the public universities, like their private counterparts, are looking to the Federal Government for more help. Many state schools are also emulating private colleges in trying to drum up alumni and corporate support.
Despite the blessings it offers in diversity and opportunity, bigness remains a problem. "The university of the '60s," says Berkeley Chancellor Roger W. Heyns, "is a city, and the problem is how to get neighborhoods within that city--otherwise you have loneliness and anonymity." Most major universities are working on ways to create those neighborhoods, such as "the cluster college" pattern of California's Santa Cruz campus, the "living-learning" units at Michigan State, and Meyerson's attempt to create "centers of identification" at Buffalo.
Still another unanswered question is whether the state universities, true to their traditional role as the community's intellectual social utility, can solve the urban problems of the present as well as they did the rural ones of the past. The land-grant colleges created most of the agricultural technology that has made the U.S. the most successful farming nation on earth. Now public universities need to develop new tools, courses, disciplines and methods of research to help the cities. One such special city problem is how to help Negroes and other minority groups fulfill their own rising expectations for education. Countless projects in tutoring ghetto youngsters, bringing them on campus during the summer to help them qualify for admission, and relaxing requirements for those who show promise are under way--but much more needs to be done.
Global U. What is happening in public higher education, as in all of U.S. society, is an unprecedented rate of change. And, as Sam Gould sees it, the ability to understand and adjust to change is precisely what higher education today is all about. In his vision of the academic future, the university is bound to be "less structured and far more flexible than it has been before"--more open to students of all ages who will be there to learn rather than accumulate degrees, and who will return throughout their lives for intellectual stimulus. The university should also be "far more interested in expounding the principles and the philosophy underlying a body of knowledge rather than the knowledge itself." He predicts an age of the "global university"--with frequent exchanges of professors and students across international frontiers.
Gould also predicts that the universal need for wisdom will lead to a sharing of faculties and facilities among public and private universities, and that students will freely move from one institution to another in search of specific learning. That, of course, means that the schools of the future may be more impersonal than they are now--and will require a new maturity on the part of students. If that also implies the end of the cozy college atmosphere that leads alumni to stifle tears when the old school song is played, Gould is not worried a bit. "It may sound frightening," he says, "but it's also rather glorious when you think of all the people who are going to get educated."
* Except for the 65,663-student, tuition-free City University of New York (seven senior colleges), which draws half of its operating and building funds from the state and administers six of the state's junior colleges.
* While at Bates College, Gould also left the Orthodox Jewish faith of his parents. He later became a Presbyterian, served as a church elder.
* He resigned last month in a dispute with his faculty over the tenure of a professor accused of helping students issue seditious statements about the Viet Nam War.
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