"Stoner" and the Forgotten Point of Higher Education

How one book reminds us of what college ought to be

"The love of literature, of language, of the mystery of the mind and heart showing themselves in the minute, strange, and unexpected combinations of letters and words, in the blackest and coldest print—the love which he had hidden as if it were illicit and dangerous, he began to display, tentatively at first, and then boldly, and then proudly."

-John Williams in “Stoner”

There are certain books that slip into your life unexpectedly. Stoner by John Williams is one of those books for me—a modest, unassuming novel that, recently, profoundly altered how I think about learning, literature, and the role of education. Although it has been reprinted in many “classic” editions, it still feels like a hidden gem, a novel that hasn’t fully found its place in the traditional literary canon. This is surprising, given how masterfully it captures something so essential: the solemn, powerful discovery of self that happens only through reading, writing, and intellectual engagement. It’s not just about learning facts or advancing one’s career—it’s about the transformation that occurs when a person truly dedicates themselves to a life of the mind.

Stoner begins with William Stoner, a farm boy who stumbles into higher education almost by accident. He enrolls at university to study agriculture, but instead finds himself gradually captivated by literature. His introduction to this new world is anything but smooth. Initially, rather than feeling awed by Shakespeare and the humanities, he seems overwhelmed, almost too naive for it all. He becomes so consumed by the demands of his first English course that he barely sleeps, drained physically and emotionally. Yet, what appears at first to be a struggle is actually the beginning of a love affair—one that will quietly reshape the course of his life. Stoner's discovery of literature doesn’t happen in a grand or dramatic moment; instead, it unfolds slowly, through a series of small, mundane awakenings. His love for literature becomes the core of his identity, though it offers him little in the way of worldly success. This narrative resonates deeply with me, particularly as a first-generation American college student from a lower-middle-class background.

In my family, higher education carried the weight of expectation: it was a practical means to a more secure life. College was supposed to be a step toward financial stability, a ticket to a better job. And yet, like Stoner, I found something much deeper and more transformative in the classroom. For the first few years of college, I worked 20 to 30 hours a week to support myself, balancing coursework with financial necessity. It wasn’t until I finally stopped working those extra hours and allowed myself to focus fully on my studies that I began to experience the true luxury of learning. To sit in a classroom, surrounded by ideas, engaged with texts, not for what they could get me but for what they could teach me—this was a kind of freedom I hadn’t fully realized I could have.

This luxury of learning is something that Stoner captures so well, but it is also something that feels increasingly rare. Recently, I read Steven Tagle’s letter in the Dear Stanford project, and I was struck with awe as I learned about the kinds of relationships students once had with their lecturers. Tagle recounts how the Jones Lecturers and Stegner Fellows at Stanford were more than just teachers—they were mentors, collaborators, and friends in the truest sense. He describes taking intimate, hands-on workshops, working one-on-one with lecturers to shape his novel, attending readings they hosted in San Francisco, and even being welcomed into their homes. These lecturers did far more than teach—they cultivated a creative community, supported their students with genuine care, and embodied what a life dedicated to writing could look like.

Reading about these experiences, I couldn’t help but feel a sense of loss. As Tagle described exchanging emails with lecturers he never even formally studied with, or being congratulated by a former professor on his MFA acceptance years after graduating, I thought about how rare those kinds of relationships have become in the post-COVID college experience. As a senior today, it feels like the stuff of legends. The connection Tagle and his peers had with their lecturers, where education extended beyond the classroom into genuine intellectual and creative companionship, is a kind of academic life I had always dreamed of but have only occasionally glimpsed, despite my many efforts to reach out to professors, attend talks, and utilize the university’s resources, including grants and fellowships. This is especially so because I spent so much time early in college working, my eyes already set on the endless horizon of labor. I regret it. I now see that the truest value of education is not transactional but relational, built through slow, deliberate engagement over time.

Stoner experiences something similar in the novel. His passion for literature, once discovered, becomes central to his life, even as the world around him fails to recognize its value. He remains steadfast in his dedication to teaching and scholarship, even when personal and professional challenges arise. This reserved dedication is at the heart of Stoner, and it’s what makes the novel so powerful. Stoner doesn’t become famous or wealthy or even loved, but he leads a life deeply committed to something that brings him meaning.

There’s something poignant about reading Stoner at a time when higher education is increasingly framed as a means to an end, a stepping stone toward financial success rather than an opportunity for intellectual and personal growth. This shift is not just a theoretical problem—it’s unfolding in real time at institutions like my own. The recent firing of the Jones Lecturers from Stanford’s creative writing program feels like an extension of this troubling trend. These lecturers, much like William Stoner, dedicated their careers to teaching and fostering a community of writers. They didn’t pursue this work for fame or fortune, but because they believed in the value of creative expression and intellectual exploration. Now, they’ve been dismissed in favor of a more “efficient” system, one that prioritizes economic calculations over the immeasurable worth of mentorship and intellectual engagement.

Stoner’s story, and the current situation at Stanford, reflect a broader crisis in higher education. When universities market themselves as stepping stones to careers, they strip away something fundamental: the belief that education is valuable in and of itself. The more we reduce higher education to a credentialing system, the more we lose sight of what makes it transformative. Yes, college can open doors to career opportunities, but its real gift lies in the space it creates for thinking deeply, exploring ideas, and discovering what matters to us beyond the pragmatic.

This fallacy—that education is merely preparation for work—is pervasive and dangerous. It leads to disillusionment when students realize that even the most successful careers often don’t satisfy the human need for intellectual and emotional fulfillment. Many forms of work, particularly in our current economy, feel antithetical to the human spirit, demanding more from us than we can give without offering much in return. In contrast, the kind of intellectual work that Stoner exemplifies—teaching, reading, writing, thinking—is not just valuable, but necessary for the cultivation of a life that feels meaningful.

In Stoner, we see the power of intellectual commitment, even in the face of a world that often undervalues it. Stoner’s life may seem small or uneventful to some, but it is rich with the kind of persistent dedication to learning that so many of us seek. As I reflect on my own experience, I find that the most profound moments of my education have been the ones where I was able to focus not on what my studies could do for me, but on what I could do within my studies—how they could expand my understanding of the world and my place in it.

In a time when universities are increasingly focused on profit and pragmatism, Stoner offers a reminder of what is truly at stake. Higher education, at its best, should not be about checking boxes or accumulating credentials—it should be about intellectual exploration, creating space for growth, and fostering the kind of deep, meaningful engagement with the world that makes life richer and more rewarding. It’s not just about preparing for the next step in life; it’s about learning how to live fully in the present.

This is what William Stoner’s life teaches us, and it’s what we stand to lose if we continue to treat education as a mere commodity. We need to protect the spaces where minds can flourish, curiosity can thrive, and learning is valued not for what it can produce, but for how it can transform us. Stoner may be a quiet novel, but its message is anything but—it’s a reminder that the life of the mind is not just important, but essential.