To Cite or not to Cite: on the Question of Common Knowledge and Plagiarism

The resignation of Harvard president Claudine Gay has led to a considerable debate about what does and doesn’t constitute plagiarism.  For me, more than a decade removed from the classroom, the discussion brings back unhappy memories of marking down, or failing, students for blatant academic dishonesty.  There were very few downsides to being a tenured college professor, but reading papers that were simply cut-and-paste jobs off the web was one of them.

The Cambridge kerfuffle raised a more recent recollection.  A couple of years ago, a reader of this Substack wrote me to accuse me of intellectual appropriation. In a post about my devotion to my ancestors, I used the phrase “a cloud of witnesses.”  I did not put it in quotation marks.  I did not cite the Apostle Paul. I did not add a footnote to let readers know it was from Hebrews 12:1, New International Version.

This particular correspondent – a former student -- was indignant: “It may be only four words, but you still have to say where you got it.”

I replied that in the world in which I was raised, certain works of literature were presumed to be universally recognizable. One did not generally cite the Bible, or Shakespeare, or very famous poems.  If someone in a Washington Post editorial should write, for example, “It may not yet be the moment to let slip the dogs of war,” I would not expect them to add that they are quoting from Julius Caesar, act 3, scene 1.  “Dogs of war” is a phrase you’re “supposed to know,” like “Once more unto the breach!” or “There are more things in heaven and earth than are dreamt of in your philosophy,” or “All’s well that ends well.” 

The Bible functions much the same way.  If I am giving an encomium at a retirement party, and I say, “Betty fought a good fight and finished the race,” I shouldn’t have to say, “Oh, and by the way, that’s me riffing on the Second Epistle to Timothy.”  Again, like other New Testament phrases such as “looking through a glass darkly” or “counting the cost,” we have a right to expect that there are certain sentences so much a part of our culture that our listeners and readers can (and maybe should) be expected to recognize the source – and not require a spoken or written attribution.

Certain classics of American poetry fall into this same category. If I write, “In any case, we all have promises to keep, and miles to go before we sleep,” do I really, really need to note that I am paraphrasing Robert Frost?

I do this with popular culture, too, and I know I am not alone. If I write, “While his misdeeds were not quite on the scale with shooting a man in Reno just to watch him die,” I might – depending on my audience – assume familiarity with a Johnny Cash song.  If I write, “I hope she won’t seduce him, just because she can,” I’m expecting someone to recognize a reference to a Dolly Parton track.  If, in giving advice, I opine, “Young man, if you really like it, then you ought to put a ring on it,” I do not expect to need to add, “As Beyoncé would have it.”

It is true that not everyone is familiar with Shakespeare, or Scripture, or Johnny Cash.  It isn’t necessary to presume one’s audience captures every canonical reference. As writers and teachers, we are imitators and synthesizers. It’s part of our job to repurpose both classical literature and popular trifles to serve our purposes. It’s not theft, it’s homage. 

This makes things tricky.  What is to stop someone accused of plagiarism from claiming that they, in their well-intentioned ignorance, thought an obscure 16^th century Italian poet was as well-known as Shakespeare?  In 2024, there is no canon on whose contents we all agree.  Even Shakespeare and St Paul might not make the modern syllabus.  That doesn’t mean, however, that I have any intention of ceasing to sprinkle various allusions and quotes throughout both my professional work and my casual speech. I will not impoverish my language to inoculate myself against charges of intellectual appropriation. 

At the same time, it is important to distinguish, as best one can, between what you still think “everyone is expected to know” and what you know perfectly well most people probably don’t. For example, I am overly fond of deploying endless variation on a particular line from my hometown poet: “And boys, be in nothing so moderate as in love of man, a clever servant, insufferable master.”  I like to swap out “love of man” for any number of topics.  Lots of things are excellent servants and tyrannical masters, like reason, logic, or iPhones. I also know that Carmel’s own Robinson Jeffers is not nearly as well-known as Shakespeare, or Robert Frost, or Taylor Swift. If there is a chance that a reasonable person might consider the clever servant/insufferable master trope to be original to me, then I should cite it. And for the most part, I do.

I do the same thing with country music lyrics, which I overuse, often mish-mashed together with other canonical scraps. If I write, “It is a truth universally acknowledged that a mother should not allow her son to grow up to be a cowboy,” I don’t need to tell you I’ve pasted together Jane Austen and Willie Nelson. (Or Ed Bruce if you know the guy who wrote the song first.) You may wince or roll your eyes, but you’ll know I’m not stealing.  If, on the other hand, I borrow a line from my favorite contemporary band – “Fools need supervision and a gift for saving face” – I’ll tell you at once it’s by Turnpike Troubadours, with whose work you are almost certainly less well-acquainted.  The rule is both simple and subjective: cite and source what you suspect the bulk of your audience will not quickly recognize; disregard attribution where you feel confident most will catch the reference.

I understand that none of this has anything to do with the accusations against Claudine Gay.  At the same time, for those of us who make our living with words, it’s worth considering how we acknowledge our influences – and how we assume that those influences are apparent to our readers. Perhaps we are all just a great bundle of influences! Chuck Palahniuk once remarked “Nothing of me is original. I am the sum of everyone I’ve ever known.” I would add, “Nothing I say or write is original. It is all the strange sum of what I’ve read and heard.”

To borrow a phrase famous enough to not require attribution, your mileage may vary.