If you look up Isaac Newton on Wikipedia, the first paragraph alone will surely cause you to whistle in admiration. Newton was:
An English polymath active as a mathematician, physicist, astronomer, alchemist, theologian, and author who was described in his time as a natural philosopher. He was a key figure in the Scientific Revolution and the Enlightenment that followed. His pioneering book Philosophiæ Naturalis Principia Mathematica (Mathematical Principles of Natural Philosophy), first published in 1687, consolidated many previous results and established classical mechanics. Newton also made seminal contributions to optics, and shares credit with German mathematician Gottfried Wilhelm Leibniz for developing infinitesimal calculus, though he developed calculus years before Leibniz. He is considered one of the greatest and most influential scientists in history.
Beyond developing principles of motion, establishing new methods of conducting physics, inventing calculus, and contributing to the understanding of optics, Newton was also, for an astounding 30 years, Master of the Mint under Queen Anne. Though “these [types of] appointments were intended as sinecures”—positions that are largely symbolic—Newton “took [the appointment] seriously,” “exercis[ing] his authority to reform the currency and punish[ing] clippers and counterfeiters.”
Newton was far from the only Enlightenment-era polymath to hold elected or appointed office. Indeed, many early Americans were gifted in more than one intellectual arena. The two most famous of these are Benjamin Franklin and Thomas Jefferson, the latter of whom preserved his scientific instruments and displayed them at his mansion-turned-museum called Monticello. If you tour that magnificent colonial house overlooking Charlottesville, Va., you begin to appreciate the fecundity of Jefferson’s mind after glancing at his extensive library and wealth of scientific instruments. Besides being an amateur architect (Jefferson largely designed Monticello by himself), professional legal scholar, author, and diplomat, Jefferson was, of course, the third President of the United States.
Similar examples of historical figures with wide-ranging abilities exist after the 18th century, but they seem to diminish in frequency. Theodore Roosevelt was a published ornithologist and a world-renowned expert on North American megafauna before he became President, as well as the author of The Naval War of 1812, considered definitive by historians for 100 years. More recently, Michael Jordan played both professional basketball and baseball (though he wasn’t very good at the latter). And today, Noam Chomsky, trained professionally as a linguist, is also a world-famous social critic and political commentator.
But while it’s easy to think of historical examples of polymaths, it’s much harder to do so now. Why is that?
There are several reasons, but I think the main one is the economic concept of division of labor. This idea—that different people perform different tasks—is foundational in economic thinking. It’s also one of the main reasons for the explosion of economic growth that the world has experienced over the past 300 years. I first learned about the division of labor as a college student in my economics classes. The standard explanation goes like this: Imagine Todd and Jason are stranded on an island. Todd is good at making spears, and he can make 10 spears per hour. Jason is terrible at making spears, and he can only make two per hour. On the other hand, Jason is an excellent hunter and fisher, bringing in three birds and one fish each hour he is out hunting. Todd isn’t great at these vital activities, and when he hunts and fishes, he only takes in one bird and zero fish.
At first, Todd and Jason split their labor evenly, with both taking turns hunting and making spears. But after two hours, they have just 12 spears, four birds, and one fish to show for their efforts. They quickly realize that their time would be better spent doing the things they’re good at. During the next stretch of two hours, the duo nets 20 spears, six birds, and two fish. As a result of this specialization, Todd and Jason have maximized their efficiency and, with it, their productivity.
Multiply this process by a few million, and you have a general model for economic growth across a society. As people start to produce the things they’re good at producing, they produce more stuff—and, with all that extra stuff, more prosperity. Moreover, this is a virtuous cycle. Over time, as economies specialize, the level of prosperity raises enough that people who were once confined to the farm can leave and pursue their own economic destinies.
This process is great for economic and scientific growth. As people specialize, they refine their skills and knowledge. In doing so, they increase their efficiency further and contribute to even greater prosperity.
The problem with this is that it siloes professionals into distinct lanes that offer much less room for overlap with other lanes. Today’s professional physicists have little room for exploring finance, poetry, or drama. Similarly, playwrights don’t often hang out with biologists. This is likely reinforced by social norms—physicists hang out with other physicists because, in part, it would be weird for them to hang out with poets.
As the economy specializes, so too do universities. Today’s scientific publications reward scholars who hyperspecialize to such an extent that only a fraction of the public can even begin to understand their area of inquiry. There’s little interdisciplinary research going on in universities because the academic job market values rigidity and a willingness to stay in one’s lane.
This also plays out, to a certain extent, in politics. When George Washington was President, he appointed Alexander Hamilton as his Treasury Secretary. Hamilton had no formal training in finance, yet his voracious reading and intense work ethic contributed to his establishing the young United States as a financial and manufacturing powerhouse. Contrast that to today, when President Biden’s Treasury Secretary, Janet Yellen, is an academic economist, and former President Trump’s was a banking executive.
Of course, today’s economy is much more dynamic and complex than that of George Washington’s day. Moreover, because there wasn’t as much specialization back then, we simply don’t know whether Washington would have appointed a more experienced financial man as his Treasury Secretary if he had the option. Still, it’s interesting to note this change of norms over the years driven by economic pressures.
As a result of these pressures, there isn’t as much cross-pollination of ideas in the professional world. This is a problem because the real world isn’t broken up into discrete chunks like the professional world is. A physicist steeped in the humanities would likely improve his contributions to his field. Similarly, a playwright with biologist friends may use that knowledge and access to better develop characters in her next play.
I’ve always thought that specialization wasn’t the optimal way of living my life. As a result, I’ve strayed away from becoming a specialist in any given field. (Part of that is my reluctance to commit to just one field of study or work.) Because I have broad interests, I’ve read many books in different genres, and I’ve split my time between nonfiction and fiction. My opinions on this were bolstered when I read David Epstein’s book Range: Why Generalists Triumph in a Specialized World. In that book, Epstein told several stories about business executives, musicians, and athletes who remained generalists instead of specializing. Each of these stories reinforced the notion that learning and doing things outside of your comfort zone actually benefits your career.
In the academic world, generalizing also helps scholars remain relevant beyond the Ivory Tower. Scholars who spend all their time delving deeper and deeper into their narrow area of specialization begin speaking in terms that only their most learned peers can understand. As a result, their writing becomes less intelligible to the uninitiated. By contrast, scholars who engage with the world outside of their narrow area of expertise practice their communication skills because without such deep knowledge of these other subjects, they can’t use the specialized vocabulary that they’re used to. This, I imagine, would also help novelists, a distressing number of whom are graduates of Master’s of Fine Arts programs in rarified universities. Novelists—who are, naturally, storytellers—shouldn’t confine themselves to a small circle of fellow campus-dwellers. If they do, then the pressures to produce all-too-similar novels will drag them ever further into conformity. Instead, authors should explore their intellectual passions—even if that means they won’t end up as experts in those fields.
Beyond all this, though, being a generalist is just . . . fun. You can read Epstein’s book to get the social-scientific and psychological reasons why you should not box yourself into a narrow lane. But it’s not just optimization and productivity-maximizing that drives people to generalize. Instead, learning about a host of different subjects instills a love of exploration, a joie de vivre that is hard to get when you’re on a narrow track.
Never underestimate the power of generalizing. It’s far more interesting than the alternative.
yes. generalists are few and far between. too much pressure to specialize. probably the advent of the concept of money was the lynchpin. that classically allowed the general farmer to specialize in the kind of crop that he grew best and convert the excess production into cash that could be traded for the goods and services in which it was inefficient to generalize. i like generalists though and we need more of them. i find they are way more fun to talk to at parties :)