“Tell us more about yourself and how your life became connected with philosophy.”
A. Gedutis:
Philosophy entered my life almost by accident. At the time, mathematics seemed like a very unattractive option — though I no longer think that way — and without the mathematics exam, my choices became much narrower. My goal was to study English philology, but I failed the entrance exam. Four fields remained: law, library science, history, and philosophy. The last one seemed like “the lesser evil.”
At first, I only vaguely understood what philosophy was. I even experienced a somewhat comical situation: my future dissertation supervisor, Professor Evaldas Nekrašas from Vilnius University, gave me the minimum passing grade — a five — on my Introduction to Philosophy exam. Later he joked: “Could you explain to me why I gave you that five?”
Over time, I realized that philosophy is not about knowing facts — it requires thinking, reasoning, and argumentation. It was only around my third year of studies that I began to feel like a genuine, competent philosophy student. Curiously, those who were the “stars” of the course back then eventually drifted away.
“And you never strayed from philosophy — bachelor’s, master’s, and finally doctoral studies.”
A. Gedutis:
No, I didn’t stray. To many people, philosophy seems like empty chatter, but I try to convince students that philosophy differs from chatter in that it demands rational arguments. It’s an attempt to justify one’s position using the strongest reasoning possible.
Moreover, philosophy allows you to converse with people who left profound ideas to the world centuries ago. For example, Plato described quite accurately how a democracy can turn into a populist dictatorship. His analysis applies to Hungary, Slovakia, the United States — and similar tendencies can be seen even in Lithuania. His texts also help explain and understand Russia’s aggressive behavior.
In mathematics or physics, theories constantly change, but in philosophy, you can take an old tool and it may still work.
“What brought you back to your hometown?”
A. Gedutis:
After completing my master’s studies, I returned to Klaipėda with my family, while simultaneously pursuing doctoral studies at Vilnius University. At that time, academic life in Klaipėda seemed more relaxed and open. The Faculty of Social Sciences was home to scholars like Leonidas Donskis and Algimantas Valantiejus — the atmosphere was different.
In Vilnius, the relationship between students and lecturers was more formal. In Klaipėda, students could casually interact as equals with renowned visiting professors from abroad — Algis Mickūnas, Vytautas Kavolis, Aleksandras Štromas.
Leonidas Donskis encouraged me to stay in Klaipėda. And honestly, I don’t regret it. I started as an assistant, later became a lecturer and a research fellow. I taught many subjects, but the main discipline I can’t seem to escape is logic.
There was a time when I thought logic was no longer needed — everyone seemed rational, able to reason properly. But 2016 changed everything: Brexit, populist movements, the election of Donald Trump, and the mass spread of conspiracy theories during the pandemic. I realized that rational thinking was more necessary than ever.
“What changes have you noticed over the years — have students changed?”
A. Gedutis:
Wisdom doesn’t change, but contexts do — significantly. It’s not so much that students have changed, but the world around them has. They are physically here, but mentally they exist in a global space. Social networks have homogenized young people worldwide. I believe students in Lithuania and the United States are now very similar.
For example, five years ago even in Klaipėda many young people joined the “Black Lives Matter” movement — the older generation couldn’t understand why they were protesting for Black lives in Lithuania. But for the younger generation, these are the same values they see in the U.S. or Western Europe.
“What are you researching at the moment?”
A. Gedutis:
My main area is forms of knowledge in the humanities. Together with Kęstas Kirtiklis, we are finishing a monograph On Quality and Other Demons of the Humanities, which emerged as a result of a project funded by the Research Council of Lithuania from 2021 to 2024. Publishing has taken some time, but the book is only improving with age.
We examined how quality is understood in the humanities. Official documents constantly refer to it, yet it has no clear definition. We analyzed administrative rhetoric, foreign literature, and conducted 50 interviews with humanities scholars from nine countries representing all disciplines — philosophy, theology, history, philology, art studies, and ethnology. It became clear that administrators and researchers inhabit entirely different realities. For administrators, “quality” means publications in prestigious, high-impact journals. Researchers understand quality much more broadly, and it is not necessarily linked to articles in “serious” international journals.
A month ago, together with Vytautas Michelkevičius, we published a book titled Cuckoo Songs — about artistic research, which still seems puzzling to many, despite the fact that it expands the space of scholarly knowledge. I think we managed to show effectively that artists, using their own methods, can also conduct meaningful and significant research that helps address various contemporary issues.
“You also research the city and the sounds that echo within it. Where did this interest come from?”
A. Gedutis:
I am a melomaniac. Music and sound matter to me, so more than ten years ago I began studying Klaipėda’s soundscapes. I noticed that the city is presented to residents and tourists only visually — the city appears silent. So a natural desire emerged to explore how Klaipėda actually sounds.
The noise regulation rules of Lithuanian cities are also interesting: they define urban sounds as sources of unpleasant noise, although much is not regulated at all. For example, port sounds fall outside noise regulation. Natural sounds — such as crows cawing or cows mooing — may annoy people, yet are not considered noise. A city is a living organism — it can be seen, but it can also be heard.
I once gave a national radio interview about studying urban sound. Afterwards, I received a letter from a teacher who, inspired by the interview, sent students to Vilnius to collect city sounds. Apparently, I’m not the only one who finds this fascinating.
“What does your daily life as a philosopher look like?”
A. Gedutis:
A lot of reading, writing, analyzing, observing, reflecting, and preparing conference presentations. In truth, a lot of desk work. But the best ideas come while walking. My brain works most intensively in motion — in the forest, by the sea, in any weather.
For at least three hundred days a year, even in the dark, I spend at least an hour and a half by the sea after work. It is not recreation — it is a kind of working method. While walking, I solve most of my intellectual tasks. I recommend it to everyone — it’s an excellent way both to recharge and to release energy. It costs nothing and helps combat the persistent stereotype that people in Klaipėda never go to the sea.
