Varoufakis on some of the further problems with neoclassical economic theory: “neoclassical economics models the labour process as a simple transaction between workers and bosses. It is as if workers and their employers are not involved in any fluctuating power/social relation with one another” (157). I need to think more about the problems of drawing parallels between the student/teacher relationship and the worker/employer relationship — one might suggest that students appropriate their own labor in writing papers, rather than having the value of that labor appropriated by teachers — but students often see themselves as producing texts “for” a teacher, so perhaps there’s transferability. The thing is, this shows just how problematic neoclassical economic models are for the discipline of composition, because so much of composition’s attention is focused on the process of textual production, and how that process of production is bound up in the social relations between student and teacher and student and institution. Varoufakis again: “along with the social relations within the firm, the neoclassical model dismisses the actual process of production. Indeed the whole complex process of producing a commodity is collapsed to that one instance during which workers and firms agree to exchange labour for capital at a given price. It is as if production is a procedural, automatic matter that occurs in some unspecified manner after the exchange between workers and employers” (157). The compositionist might say that the neoclassical economist completely ignores the rhetorical canon of invention; the educator might say that the neoclassical economist completely ignores pedagogy and the ways in which education-as-commodity gets produced.
I’m all sniffly and head-coldy. Changes in weather, maybe, going from the 30-degree Northeast to 80-degree San Antonio and back again? And now it’s rainy and wet and snowy and windy and chilly and wretched. Old winter spits its last breath for hate’s sake, with snow and freezing rain sinking all coffins and all hearses to one common pool, and roars with its gusty breath: from hell’s heart I stab at thee, New England.
OK, well maybe the weather’s not that bad. But it’s not exactly pleasant, either.
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