In the twentieth century, better a professional and wrong than an amateur and right. A lie in the high tower commanded the respect and attention of the world. It shaped the textbooks and the encyclopedias, it drew the cameras and the microphone. A truth in the street had to recruit and organize, had to keep the heat on and blow the lid off. In the twenty-first century, better an amateur and wrong than a professional and right. A lie in the street finds friends everywhere. It supplies interests and activities, it cements a community: the less self-supporting, the more room for supporters. A truth in the high tower must patiently plait its proofs until they hang long and thick enough to climb down.
The distinction between amateur and the professional is not necessary or ancient. It is a conclusion of the philosophy of pragmatism, part of pragmatism's alternatives to the statics of classical philosophy. Everything used to be much more like cooking, where the difference between professionals and amateurs—the difference between livelihood and pastime—is one of better ingredients, better equipment, and wider experience—one of degree, not one of kind.
The distinction does not divide one class of practice into the amateur and the professional; it invents professional practice. Success in all practice had been judged against something predefined. But the professional, having some arduous qualification, defines the profession as what professionals do. Who are you to tell someone trained and assayed—to tell a doctor, a lawyer, an artist, a scientist—who are you tell them what to be? They are not told; they show. If you must have a system, describe them; but do not expect them to notice.
We do not recognize this idea as pragmatism because it has left pragmatism behind and become, instead of a conclusion, a postulate—no, more than a postulate, it has become its own form of logic. The necessities of professionalism define reality. Not that professionalism is priestcraft. The professional is not the priest of the god; the professional is the very god, and unanswerable. It is difficult to read Job today except as God the Professional shutting down His critics.
Like nature around technology, amateurism grows up in all the cracks of professionalism, and encloses all of its structures. One of the wonders of the early web was to see, in all its private seriousness, the ecosystem of amateurism inside which professionalism lives. Until then professionals, like birds, came from somewhere, somehow, and went somewhere, for something. Now we saw the grave mimicry of the professional manner by which postulants commited themselves; we saw the acerbic and ingenious criticisms by which outsiders kept themselves involved; we saw how the necropolis of obsolete methods, dead-end theories, and abandoned movements was refurbished and inhabited.
Nature around technology is not just what remains of nature before technology; it is something different. Likewise amateurism around professionalism is something different than amateurism before professionalism. Separation from money made it resourceful; separation from recognition made it incorrigible; separation from responsibility made it foolish. This change cannot be reversed. To remove professionalism would no more restore Renaissance men, gentleman scientists, scholar adventurers, or philosopher legislators to mankind, than to remove mankind would restore mammoths, aurochsen, thylacines and dodoes to the world. There are lineages in human types as much as in natural species. With these too, extinction is forever. Sometimes backbreeds and hybridization revive the traits; but without the niche the result is only a curiosity. It is basic to ecology that if a niche is extant, something else will fill it, and if the niche is gone, some other system has displaced it. Effectual amateurism has been re-opened; but what we get from it may as little resemble what we had before, as the kangaroo resembles the deer.
Professionalism is an evident pathology. Its pomps are too tempting for human beings. All professionalism decays toward the asymptote of the DSM. But there is no alternative. Professionalism and amateurism have coexisted too long; they require one another for correction. One cannot be right unless the other is wrong; to be right at all, we need them both.