by a mildly surprised emeritus professor
Academics are taught many things over the years. How to write grant applications in a tone of sober optimism. How to disagree politely while eviscerating an argument. How to pretend that Reviewer 2’s comments are ‘helpful’. But we are rarely prepared for the moment when our own work achieves enlightenment and returns to the world under a different name.
It began, as these things often do, with Google Scholar. Browsing innocently, I discovered that a paper I had written many years ago, first author with two colleagues, had been reborn. Here it was miraculously renewed: Freeing the chi of change: The Higher Education Academy and enhancing teaching and learning in higher education. Same title. Same argument. Same metaphors. Different authors. Different journal. Different universe.
This was not mere influence. Nor was it scholarly dialogue. This was something more metaphysical. The article had apparently passed through the cycle of samsara, shedding its original authorship like an old skin, and had re-emerged – serene, confident, and wholly unburdened by attribution.
Opening the paper produced a strange sense of déjà vu. Paragraphs unfolded exactly as I remembered writing them. The argument progressed through familiar analytical levels. The meso level was, once again, mysteriously absent. And there it was: the metaphor of chi – blocked, stagnant, yearning to be freed – flowing unimpeded across two decades and several thousand miles.
One could not help but admire the fidelity. This was not slapdash copying. This was careful stewardship. A lightly paraphrased abstract here, a synonym substituted there. “Examines” had matured into “takes a look at”. “Work intensification” had achieved inner peace as “an increase in workload”. The original prose had been gently guided toward a simpler, more mindful state.
The production values added to the sense of cosmic theatre. Running headers attributed the article to someone else entirely, suggesting either deep enlightenment or mild confusion. Words occasionally developed spontaneous internal spacing, or none at all, as if even the typography were observing a vow of non-attachment. Peer review, meanwhile, appeared to have transcended physical form altogether.
At moments like this, one is tempted to ask philosophical questions. What is authorship, really? If an argument is copied perfectly, does it still belong to its original creator? If a journal publishes without editors in the room to hear it, does it still make a sound? If a metaphor about blocked chi appears in the forest of academic publishing, does anyone notice?
And then there is Google Scholar, calmly indexing it all, like a Zen monk sweeping leaves while entire epistemologies collapse around him.
The emotional journey is predictable. Surprise gives way to irritation, which in turn yields to a kind of exhausted amusement. After all, it is not every day one gets to read one’s own work as if it were new – especially when it has been thoughtfully simplified for contemporary consumption.
Correspondence followed. Screenshots were taken. Appendices multiplied. Examples of verbatim overlap were laid out with the careful precision of a tea ceremony. The original article was cited. The reincarnated article was cited. Karma, it seemed, was being documented.
What lingers after the initial absurdity is not just concern about misconduct, but about the ecosystems that allow such reincarnations to flourish. Journals without editors. Publishers without addresses. Ethics policies without enforcement. A publishing landscape in which the appearance of scholarship is often sufficient, and coherence is optional.
Perhaps this is the true lesson of Eastern philosophy for higher education. When systems lose balance, chi stagnates. When oversight weakens, energies flow in unexpected directions. When scholarly publishing detaches from accountability, articles achieve nirvana without the inconvenience of authorship.
The good news is that the chi remains remarkably resilient. Even when blocked, it finds a way. It circulates. It reincarnates. It reappears – sometimes with better spacing, sometimes with worse.
As for me, I have learned a valuable lesson. Should I ever wish to republish my earlier work, there are evidently paths that require no revision, no peer review, and very little effort. I will not be taking them. But it is oddly comforting to know that my chi, at least, is doing well.
SRHE Fellow Paul Trowler is Emeritus Professor of Higher Education at Lancaster University. His work focuses on teaching, learning, and organisational change, with a long-standing interest in how academic practices operate in everyday settings. More recently, he has been working on doctoral education and the practical use of AI within learning architectures that support research and learning. He continues to write and develop tools that emphasise dialogic, theory-informed approaches rather than transmission-led models.