Digressions&Impressions

Covid Diaries: An Optimistic Intermezzo full of joy

It's nice to offer an upbeat update on my long-haul. (For my official "covid diaries," see here; here; here; here; here; here; here; here; here; here; here;  here; here; here; here; here; here; here; here; here; here; here; here; here; here; here; here; and here). So, now I have taught four lectures in two weeks on Tuesdays and Thursdays. Three of the four lectures went really well -- the students here give loud applause when that happens--, and I was especially thrilled with the questions I received from the students. (It takes real courage to ask a question in front of hundreds of peers--this is the 600+ students course.) During intermission and after each class I spent time answering further questions. (I know this stretches me a bit, but I get so much energy and joy of the students' eagerness to learn that I allow myself to engage longer than I should.) In order to reduce cognitive load, I improvise less and make fewer jokes during lecture; unintentionally, I am also a bit slower in my delivery. But I am really grateful to my past self to have created such streamlined lectures (although I am amazed that my students don't complain more about the slides).

 

In each case, the night after class, I wake up in the middle of the night with a headache. It's scary because during the Fall such headaches were the start of two (plus) days misery each time. But not this time! So far, I tend to fall back asleep. Somewhat weirdly on Wednesdays I have a modest headache (last week worse than this week), and on Fridays I have been fine so far, and yesterday I felt awesome. (My only regret of the storm was that I could not be outside to enjoy.)

 

Ordinary conversations still fatigue me relatively quickly, and in other respects I live a very simple almost monkish life. I spent a lot of time this week with physicians, and we're going to change my medical care. I am dropping my occupational therapy and will start working with a neuro-psychologist (in consultation with a rehab physician) in order to reduce my stimulus sensitivity. The occupational therapist I had really helped me get my symptoms under control, but I felt we had exhausted options with her (she was basically treating my long haul as if I had burn out--which has been the norm in the Netherlands for those w/o clear heart or lung problems--this itself often generates infuriating circumstances, but that's for another occasion).

 

So, after the Fall semester I was really doubtful about my future professional life. I imploded during most seminars, and spent days recovering in miserable fashion. Even if the university were to accommodate me in the future, the prospect of that was miserable. But this is much more enjoyable, and the prospect of teaching fills me with joy. And while it's unusual for me not to be busy with several big projects at the same time, I am doing final edits to Neglected Classics II on the side. Anyway, this is longer than I intended. But those of you who like hearing about progress, today's update was definitely the cuppeth is half full and, with -- aliquid fit ex nihilo -- the magic of undergrad teaching, filling up.

On Rammstein, MRIs and Being Real (long covid Diaries)

A month ago we went on a family holiday on a deserted island in the Indian ocean with a very tiny, quiet resort on it with huts overlooking the ocean. It was very quiet, and my family spent their time sailing and snorkeling. While I love swimming, I didn't feel ready to try my luck with an ocean. So, twice a day I went to the hut with a treadmill and started to do a gentle interval training. It was painful, but I enjoyed it. The rest of the day I would read and live-tweet some of my chapter summaries of books. Only at dinner would I notice any symptoms of covid with the minor buzz of other guests in the background and dinner conversation exhausting me. I would fall asleep early not bothered by the heat, and sleep long restful hours.

I was reminded of a book, The World Beyond Your Head: On Becoming an Individual in an Age of Distraction, by my graduate school dog-park buddy (and basketball competitor), Matthew Crawford  (whose Shopcraft as Soulcraft was a genuine bestseller and briefly a cultural icon), in which he points out that in our age the very rich pay for quiet (as can be noticed in their airport lounges). Most of the few other guests at the resort were very bourgeois Suisse couples (bankers, insurance, etc.), sporty and pleased with the lack of noise while they enjoyed the ocean (and presumably each other). It was truly restful, and it was also delightful to be around my spouse and son while both were mellow. 

When I returned from the holiday, I went back to lap-swimming in the pool down the hill. And I quietly started to muse that if it weren't for my fatigue  after social interactions I had turned the corner on covid. (For my official "covid diaries," see here; here; here; here; here; here; here; here; here; here; here;  here;  here;  here;  here; here;  here; here;  here; here; here; here; here; here; and here). Two weeks ago I went to Amsterdam for a MRI and a visit to my occupational therapist. The occupational therapist insisted that I try to to discipline myself and avoid social interactions for more than 25-30 minutes (including with my family). Of course, I had to experiment occasionally with longer interactions, but I should really try (now using her words) not to deplete energy. She recognized that returning to teaching in February would mean I would violate her instructions, but since I claimed I 'gain energy' from my undergraduates, and these were fairly unidirectional lecture courses (I promised her to make few jokes and leave less room for questions from the lecture hall), she resigned herself to it.

Now I know many academics really dislike social interactions, and I am myself known to be irritable, impatient, and unpleasant on occasion. And there is no doubt that I can be incredibly happy writing hours on end. But in general I love the social aspect of doing philosophy together, and hanging in cafe's and talking. And I love spending time with the undergraduates discussing the material and learning from their insights. And I love gossip. And after a few years of pandemic I really just want to watch crowds enjoying life. 

I was musing about this when I arrived early at my MRI. Much to my amazement I was allowed to go thirty minutes ahead of schedule. After the MRI I had a minor panic attack that the nurse who administered it never asked me for my name (just my weight) and whether my wedding band was made of pure gold. I haven't heard the results yet, but I wouldn't be surprised if my results were mixed up with those of the lovely old man who was scanned after me.

The brain scan was pure horror. I have done them before, and I have never been too bothered by the claustrophobic set-up or the noise. (I had a MRI done of my lungs when I was first diagnosed with covid.) The claustrophobia still didn't bother me--I just closed my eyes. But even with ear-plugs and noise-canceling headphones, a brain scan is the way to kill off all the long haulers. Imagine your head exploding, and then adding TNT, while listening to Rammstein. It only lasted thirty minutes or so. But the variety and intensity of the noise stayed with me for a whole week. I was bedridden, insomniac, and with a weird nausea/headache. And while I am much better this week (more about that below), the optimism of a few weeks ago  eliminated. The bitter irony is that I had arm-twisted my neurologist to put me in the scan. (I am back to swimming my laps daily.)

On Monday I had an important telephone meeting with an occupational health agency expert. According to the law, after one year this expert evaluates my dossier in light of a formal report of my occupational physician, documentation sent by me, and an employer's report. While I have another year on disability funded by my employer, this is the first moment a process that can lead to termination or a new career can be initiated. So, it's not just a routine conversation. I don't think I reveal any state secrets when I disclose that my Chair had not submitted her report. This told me that my department wasn't yet at the point where they would use my partial disability to get rid of my position and salary.

As an aside, but not irrelevant, luckily, the evals of my Fall course were stellar: students felt they had to work hard and were challenged, but they adored the course. (I did say I love my undergraduates, and it is returned.)* The only sign in the evals that my students noticed anything of my covid is that one complained that my jokes were real downers (usually people praise my jokes).

The conversation with the occupational expert got off on the wrong foot when I misunderstood her intention in her trying to get me to understand that based on my CV I was probably overstretched before I got covid. I thought she was insinuating that my covid was mostly a burn-out. My reaction was not wholly surprising because too many Dutch medical types have tried to push this line on me this past year. And I reminded her that while everyone in Dutch academy was overworked (because of structural lack of funding), I was in no mood for another physician trying to convince me that my situation would just heal itself if I took a step back. But we quickly clarified that what she was trying to say was that I should not expect to return to my former level of activity in my job. I assured her that there was no risk of that. I don't expect to get any research done while teaching, and for the moment I am withdrawing from all speaking engagements. 

The rest of the meeting was anticlimactic. She said she trusted my occupational physician that I was likely to have a full recovery. And that as long as my department and I stayed within the guidelines of the occupational physician we should aim to keep me in my position. We would re-evaluate in four months. Later that day I received a lovely email from the Chair of my department that echoed these sentiments.

As I turned to preparing my syllabus for my enormous required, survey course -- 637 registered students -- I initiated a whirlwind of emails to settle logistics. Leaving aside pandemic uncertainty and the fact that we still have to do online testing, courses this size really and this prominent in the curriculum involve half a dozen stake-holders who all have their vision on what it should be. As the emails went back and forth, I mentally realized and accepted I would not get much scholarship done. It would be a prep week. 

Two nights ago I awoke in the middle of the night from a complex nightmare. As I laid in bed restless, I wondered whether my irritability over the burn-out trope was perhaps blinding me to the truth; maybe I couldn't handle the workflow at work? But as my mind drifted into anxiety and I reflected more on the dream, I was terrified over my future: what if each class lecture would incapacitate me for two days (like my Fall seminars)? What if I really could never have a real, long conversation with my kid again? What if I could never attend a workshop again? What if my wife becomes miserable because she has lost her partner in crime? And so on, and so on. 

I mentioned in some of posts at the end of last year that I understand myself as partially cognitively disabled. This limits my life, but it also puts enormous strains on others. My immediate colleagues have had to pick up some of the slack, and my family's life-style is hugely impacted. A lot of the changes can be folded into 'the pandemic', but some of the adjustments pertaining to me qua individual may well be structural for me, and my environment. If my class does incapacitate me I will have to think about a career switch. Not because my department will nudge me out, but because i shouldn't be in a job that makes be bedridden out of sight. And that is terrifying.

As regular readers know I have been influenced by (recall here; here; and here) Elizabeth Barnes' The Minority Body. And one lesson I took from it is that being alive just is living with constraints. The real political and psychological problem is that when you are disabled or impaired, our social environment is shaped for different bodies and agents.  The adjustment to the absence of once familiar affordances which have become out of reach is painful and tiring. Yesterday, Matt Strohl called my attention to a beautiful essay by Francey Russell in The Boston Review. In it, she quotes Sidney Poitier that “acting isn’t a game of ‘pretend.’ It’s an exercise in being real.” This made me see that each new role would be exhausting for actors. For me, being cognitively impaired is taking on a new role, and, if you allow me the inference, so an exercise in being real.  

Cosmic Balance and Civic Flourishing in Omelas.

    They all know it is there, all the people of Omelas. Some of them have come to see it, others are content merely to know it is there. They all know that it has to be there. Some of them understand why, and some do not, but they all understand that their happiness, the beauty of their city, the tenderness of their friendships, the health of their children, the wisdom of their scholars, the skill of their makers, even the abundance of their harvest and the kindly weathers of their skies, depend wholly on this child’s abominable misery.
    This is usually explained to children when they are between eight and twelve, whenever they seem capable of understanding; and most of those who come to see the child are young people, though often enough an adult comes, or comes back, to see the child. No matter how well the matter has been explained to them, these young spectators are always shocked and sickened at the sight. They feel disgust, which they had thought themselves superior to. They feel anger, outrage, impotence, despite all the explanations. They would like to do something for the child. But there is nothing they can do. If the child were brought up into the sunlight out of that vile place, if it were cleaned and fed and comforted, that would be a good thing indeed; but if it were done, in that day and hour all the prosperity and beauty and delight of Omelas would wither and be destroyed. Those are the terms. To exchange all the goodness and grace of every life in Omelas for that single, small improvement: to throw away the happiness of thousands for the chance of the happiness of one: that would be to let guilt within the walls indeed.

    The terms are strict and absolute; there may not even be a kind word spoken to the child.--- Ursula Le Guin "The Ones Who Walk Away from Omelas"

Omelas has an unusual coming of age ritual: the would be adults are initiated into a horrible truth that is simultaneously the foundation of civic happiness. And they may not alter this state of affairs on pain of losing their prosperity (and other good things). In addition, their subsequent free speech is limited in a crucial way, they may not comfort or express compassion to the child that is sacrificed for their flourishing. This would violate "the terms" of a kind of (social) contract (recall here; and here) that is either the actual root of this commercial republic, or a kind of civic religion that structures its social reality. 

A skeptical reader may well deny that such "terms" could ever express a truth since it is so manifestly unjust. But as I have noted before, if the terms actually constitute (political) justice in the city, then this move is external to the civic consciousness of Omelas. (Of course, a defender of natural right might take that as evidence that forms of legal positivism are pathways to evil.) And moreover sometimes the truth indicates the abominable misery of the status quo.

But my present interest is to note that the ritual expresses the significance of social and political knowledge in Omelas. Because this ritual is initiated in order to convey a key knowledge about social life of Omelas when the would-be-adults are capable of "understanding" the "explanations" of it. The reactions of those exposed to it, suggests that those not yet ready for understanding are carefully guarded from the truth. So, the miserable child is a social taboo from which the young are guarded carefully. That is to say, the not young maintain a culture of silence among those who are not yet initiated.  This suggests that in so far as it is a civic religion it is carefully expressed. It is by no means obvious that the many visitors to Omelas that the proud city receives would know about it since these might well tell the children of Omelas or be tempted to protest the state of affairs. (This suggests that freedom of speech is curtailed even more widely in Omelas.)

I have noted before that despite the fact that the actual religion of Omelas lacks clergy, the miserable and innocent child is a kind of piacular scapegoat. To me this suggests that the state and its civic religion has claimed for itself that which properly belongs to revealed or clerical religion.

One of my students, Robin Kan, pointed out to me that the sacrifice of the innocent child functions like a cosmic balance principle in their civic religion. For, at any given time of the polity's existence, the child's immense suffering balances out the flourishing of the polity ("that their happiness, the beauty of their city, the tenderness of their friendships, the health of their children, the wisdom of their scholars, the skill of their makers, even the abundance of their harvest and the kindly weathers of their skies, depend wholly on this child’s abominable misery.") Structurally, such a cosmic balance principle is very similar to Christ's redemptive suffering for the sins of humanity (which is sometimes discussed in terms of such a cosmic balance), except that Christ voluntarily takes on this task and the child is forced into it without ever being allowed any understanding of its role. It is not even offered an ideological explanation for its suffering, and thanks to Omelas' social taboo on it, it has literally no chance of anticipating it. Of course, Omelas' balance principle is not cosmic, but local, bounded by the the territory of Omelas; the child does not redeem all of humanity.

It is natural to teach Omelas as a means to discuss the limitations of utilitarianism in an introductory context. This year my own students saw in it a parable of colonial/imperial conquest or capitalist exploitation, and the way the media makes that available to viewers at the center and simultaneously makes us it feel impossible to change. In a future post I want to discuss one such interpretation because it centers on the purported absence of war in Omelas.

But it is worth noting that if one reads the story on its own terms, it depicts the horrors of state power devoted to the "happiness" of its people. And in the story this is a power that rests on the well informed understanding and tacit consent of its adult citizens, and it is presented as the best kind of polity that accepts the legitimacy of state power. That is to say, the implied point of view of the narration is the question whether it is worth paying the price of the benefits of state power.  

Of course, my present interpretation is informed by my recent (recall) reading of Le Guin's "The Day Before the Revolution." This story invites us to see in one of those who walk away from Omelas the revolutionary founders of a form of anarchism (which rejects state power).* That is, if we take Omelas as a best case scenario for statism, then it invites us both to reflect on the price we're willing to pay to accept our complicity in its horrors, and to what degree we're willing to contemplate (and to pursue) serious alternatives.

One final thought: the line of interpretation that I have offered here is not an alternative to, or a refutation of, treating Omelas as a means toward discussing the limitations of utilitarianism. For, as Foucault emphasizes, utilitarianism is not merely an ethical system, it is also a technology of governance. And so it does ask us what price we're willing to pay in pursuing such technologies and if we're willing to contemplate doing without them.

A Small Puzzle About Cattle, Pigs, and Vegetarianism in Plato's Republic

Then we shall have to enlarge the city again. For that healthy state is no longer sufficient, but we must proceed to swell out its bulk [and population] and fill it up with a multitude of things that exceed the requirements of necessity in states, as, for example, the entire class of huntsmen, and the imitators, many of them occupied with figures and colors and many with music—the poets and their assistants, rhapsodists, actors, chorus-dancers, contractors—and the manufacturers of all kinds of articles, especially those that have to do with women's adornment. And so we shall also want more servitors. Don't you think that we shall need tutors, nurses wet and dry, beauty-shop ladies, barbers and yet again cooks and chefs? And we shall have need, further, of swineherds; there were none of these creatures in our former city, for we had no need of them, but in this city there will be this further need; and we shall also require other cattle in great numbers if they are to be eaten.--Plato, Republic 373b-c, Translated by Paul Shorey.

The quoted passage is part of the transition from the healthy, "true city" (372e5)-- thanks to Glaucon's intervention known as the "city of pigs" (372d3-4)-- to the luxurious or feverish city. At this point we learn that the city of pigs actually does not contain any real pigs because they were not needed in a city devoted to meeting our necessary needs.

At first, I thought this meant that pigs were taken to be luxury (a bit like salmon today). Even so, this puzzled me because pigs have been domesticated for more than 9000 years,  and seemed to have been an important food staple.

The last quoted sentence ("and we shall also require other cattle in great numbers if they are to be eaten,") implies that the inhabitants of the city of pigs are vegetarian. This is also implied in 372b: "for their nourishment they will provide meal from their barley and flour from their wheat, and kneading and cooking these they will serve noble cakes and loaves on some arrangement of reeds or clean leaves." However, as 373c implies, there is cattle in the city of pigs (which is explicitly mentioned at 370e1).  

So, given the presence of cattle (and sheep) it is by no means obvious that the city of pigs is vegetarian. True, the only function explicitly and originally ascribed to cattle is to plough (3701e1). Since the good folk of  the city of pigs don't go around naked (they will have weavers for clothes and cobblers for shoes 369d7-9), it is not a stretch to assume the cows also supply leather. In addition, in response to Glaucon's horror, Socrates admits that the cows also supply the necessary city with cheese (the latter explicitly mentioned at 372c3), and so presumably also milk. So, why not meat?

It would, after all, be a waste not to eat cattle meat. And since the city explicitly trades of luxury for population growth, it would make sense for them to eat meat. But if they do, why not also farm pigs? Since the city requires export commodities (370e-371a), one could argue that the cattle meat is used to pay for necessary goods from abroad. Of course, this kind of local vegetarianism is not especially principled. 

There is a further more far-fetched hint that the inhabitants of the city of pigs were not vegetarians. When in Book 3, Socrates describes the lifestyle of the auxiliaries of the luxurious city when they are on campaign, he explicitly notes that soldiers prefer roasted meat because it is most easily available (404c2). If the inhabitants of the city of pigs would find themselves on a military campaign it's likely they would eat meat. However, (recall) Socrates explicitly denies that they go to war (372c). They maintain an optimal population to avoid poverty, luxury, and war. 

So, if the inhabitants of the city of pigs are vegetarians, as seems most likely (but not certain), it is odd that they keep cattle. But if they are not vegetarians it is odd that they do not farm pigs. Why are pigs only introduced in the feverish city. Perhaps, some classicist will inform me they had high status as a luxury item in Socratic Athens. But I doubt it.

One of my undergraduate students from a farming background* made the following plausible observation. Unlike cattle, pigs will eat almost anything. They thrive in environments such as the luxurious city with many forms of human waste. Whereas in the city of pigs, which, due to trying to maintain being on an equilibrium point of population growth, is constantly on the edge of hardship, it would require considerable and impossible effort to make sure that the pigs are adequately fed.  Since Plato's readers were gentlemen-farmers, it is not implausible they would have recognized this at once (unlike city-slickers like me).

I liked this hypothesis. But why does Socrates say that pigs are "needed" in the luxurious city? Why not use and expand existing cattle? Here my class proposed that pigs are more efficient meat producers than cattle. And so these are much better able to sustain a larger population without requiring ever expanding land something Socrates explicitly wants to prevent. For, territorial and population expansion of the territory of the Kallipos has to be governed not by population or farming pressures, but by the need to maintain (what we may call) social unity (423b). Unfortunately, I have no idea whether modern relative Feed Conversion Ratios (FCR) among animals match those in ancient times. But I'd like to think so.

Covid Spring

On Sunday, April 18, I received my first AstraZeneca (Oxford) jab. (For my covid diaries, see here; here;  here; here;  here;  here;  here; here; here; here; here; here; and here.) After a day or so, I started to feel very crummy with terrible headaches, fatigue, and irritability. Thankfully no insomnia. This lasted about twelve days. This past week I have been much better, especially daytime. Starting around 5pm, I often feel tired and hungry. The fatigue is no surprise because unfortunately, the partial insomnia has returned. In addition, I find phone and zoom conversations beyond twenty minutes still very exhausting. So, I spent my days on twitter and reading science fiction (I really admired the mixture of satire and sensitivity in A Canticle for Leibowitz). 

On Wednesday, I decided to try to do some real work: to read and comment on a chapter by one of the advanced PhD students I co-supervise. Her topic is fresh, but the author she is working on very familiar to me. She is an excellent writer, so this seemed like a good test-case. Since I had read earlier versions of the material, I figured it would be a bit like returning to a familiar face. When I tried reading it in the morning I got nausea, and my brain was not processing what I was reading. I felt panic, doubting I could ever do salient academic work again. I was mystified anew about the fact that I can read fiction and social media, but not academic work. After fresh air and lunch, I tried again. And then I read the (four section) paper one section at a time in twenty to thirty minutes stints with rests (that is, time on Twitter) among them. For an impatient person like me this way of reading is not an enjoyable experience despite my pleasure at the PhD's obvious improvement. 

Even so, that evening, fortified with a cheese and honey platter, I wrote up comments on the paper. I offered some distinctions, and referred to existing literature. I also made comments about organization and presentation. Because I could sense onset of fatigue, I offered fewer nitpicky comments than I normally would. I was too tired to re-read. But since I had spent a whole day on a task that ordinarily would take me about 90 minutes, I sent the email with comments apologizing for not responding to the rest (and important part) of the PhD's letter.

During the last four months, I had done some work related activity, but most of these involved logistical stuff (organizing exams for my class; organizing a team of indexers for my monograph; sending out emails to keep an edited volume going, letters of recommendation, etc.); and while often it felt like work, I didn't think of any of these as substantive intellectual labor. I had once or twice tried to start a new paper (based on ideas I had worked out in past lectures and digressions), but each time I realized I was not up to it. So, my comments on her chapter did feel like a small victory. But I was too exhausted to savior it.

The next morning, before the PhD had confirmed receipt of my email, I decided to re-read my letter. I I noticed a few typos, and uncompleted thoughts, but on the whole it looked like comments adequate enough for the purpose of giving direction and encouragement. Heartened, I opened a new word file, and typed in a title of a paper I had long intended to write. I started my introduction which would be the outline of the main argument. After ninety minutes I stopped because of great hunger and a strange fatigue. (I ended up having lunch very early.) After lunch I realized I could not return to work; I finished Dan Simmons' Hyperion, wondering if I should read Keats next.

While I have pulled out of other events planned this Spring, earlier in the week I canceled a talk at LSE later this month. It was no surprise to anybody involved, but a little bit died inside me. This invite had originally been planned for Spring 2020, but then we postponed due to the pandemic. At the moment I am unsure if I can attend (even by Zoom) the defense of one of my students later in May. My last planned event for the year is in Durham in June; that seems ambitious, too. So I just alerted them to the possibility of me canceling on them, too.

It's easy to give in to despair; I am still unsure about cognitive recovery, but I end the week with the glass half full. Did comment on that chapter, after all. I lead a pain-free existence surrounded by the comforts of life. When the sun is out, I read outside in the park or on quiet street benches. (I can't tell you how annoyed I am that Spring has been so cold here.) While I am still walled off from many of Mill's higher pleasures (music, arts, conversation), I am not suffering most of the time. Dogs say hi to me at my street bench, sniffing my books, and enjoying my petting. 

My GP is fairly confident I should feel more or less recovered by the end of June (six months after my onset). Because this week is so much better than last, I believe her sufficiently such that I did start discussing my Fall teaching assignments with the teaching directors. 

My life's field of vision is still quite narrow. The other day my wife noticed that I was reading my sci fi book with one eye closed. (For years now I would read without glasses reinforcing my sense of nearsightedness.) Covid has been so all-consuming, that my first response was is this another side-effect of my viral encephalitis? My wife laughed and said, 'no it's ageing.' Then followed a by now familiar explanation about decaying eye muscles and focusing. I realized she had explained the mechanism to me before, a few years ago, on a country lane during a Summer hike leaving Alfriston behind; but rather than feeling melancholy, I was strangely relieved to be reminded of normal, age-related attrition. 

 

 

Covid Blues, and Convalescence

During the last ten days there has been a noticeable improvement in the kinds and severity of symptoms: I slept well eight out of ten nights. (Interestingly enough, this coincided with a switch to a slightly lower dosage of melatonin.) Even in the two nights of relative insomnia, I did not suffer from the scary mental cycling in the void I had experienced before. There has also been no recurrence of dizziness. Since this was my initial symptom dating back to early December (recall here; here; here; here; here; and here) this is a great relief. During the last two weeks I lost about four days to incapacitating headaches (which are rarely in same place). But these headaches were less painful than I experienced in January and February (although -- and this was newish -- they were accompanied by weird nausea). Emotionally, they were not always easy because I find it very disappointing, even disorienting, to awake to a headache after a great night's sleep. In the greatest moment of all, on Tuesday I spent a few hours in the Spring Sun reading a science fiction novel (unaided by any devices). Because of that experience I feel that I have grounds for hope to recover most of my cognitive abilities. Bottom line, while I still spend a lot of time in bed, and reading is often exhausting, I am clearly suffering less in lots of ways than before.

The previous sentence also hints at the truth that I still suffer some symptoms. The two most pertinent ones are onset of fatigue/hunger and a general irritability, including noise sensitivity. I have tried to describe the fatigue before, but it now feels as if I had great deal of exercise a few hours ago (but without the accompanying happy hormones) even if I did nothing. This fatigue generates a hunger feeling. Initially, I assumed that my hunger was due to depression/boredom. And while I can't rule that out (since I surely have experienced both), the hunger accompanies the fatigue sensation like clockwork. Unsurprisingly, then, that I have steadily gained weight since I fell ill. (In very serious cases of Covid people tend to lose weight.) And while the fatigue regularly follows modest activity (short walks and reading on my kindle), it also seems to arise for no reason at all. Because it is now the main cause preventing 'normal' being-in-the-world, it is most noticeable to me. But it has been part of my covid from the start.

I have been relieved to learn that irritability is not an uncommon symptom in Covid long haulers. For, there is a kind of folk myth in our culture, I think, that experiencing vulnerability and the fragility of life, is somehow wisdom enhancing and personality improving. And while I certainly have more compassion for the incapacitated and, as I have hinted a few times, a better sense of how ableist many of the norms and structures of professional academic life are (and worth attacking--watch this space!), my self-image has taken a beating. Not, as one may expect, because I rediscovered that I really find too much joy in my work and reading more generally. I don't mind discovering I am more uni-dimensional than I have always strived to be. (Indulge me: using 'uni-dimensional' makes me feel like I am less cognitive impaired.) No, rather because I have been manifestly an impatient and often highly irritable patient. And while it's easy to point to how this is an effect of my inability to do even modest mental multitasking (which is true), it also points to larger distressing truth that my illness has amplified some of my worst character traits. (Yes, I write that despite reading John Doris on character before you did.)

There are still other signs of cognitive impairment. A few days ago, I managed to burn my left hand because I used the wrong cup in the microwave. And while this is the kind of thing that could have happened to me before Covid (I lose my keys and €50 notes regularly), it had never happened before.

Before I wrap up, I want to express my gratitude to all the kind notes, some brief some lengthy, of encouragement I have received. It is really very heartening. So, feel free to keep em coming! One subset of these letters is worth mentioning: a non-trivial percentage of the students in 'my' lecture course, who only 'know' me from watching last year's recorded lectures (that are being used to substitute for me) and my messages on canvas (and corresponding with me about the course), have sent wonderful touching letters. Often they confide their struggles with home learning relating it to how they imagine my experience (they know I have had covid--some even read these digressions). The students seems so much gentler this year.

One letter-writer -- you know who you are -- proposed a joint project on a historically and autobiographically informed pandemic bio-ethics that would get away from the management perspective that pervades medical ethics and would involve what Kant calls our duties to our animal self. This letter made me cry. (I won't try to analyze that now.) This friend allowed me to imagine a future version of me that could incorporate my long haul experience into an image of myself. I have already noted before the significance of my fellowship of long-haulers who in their sharing of their experience help me to cope with my own. But my response to this letter reminded me -- and this is part of my ongoing response to Callard (recall here; here; and here)  -- how important others are in shaping our aspirational selves. As all experienced teachers know (recall) the effects of our shaping our students are often indirect and surprising. Realizing that I can still be shaped like this, too, has helped me come to terms a bit with the gently closed doors because I had to withdraw from some wonderful opportunities and the sheer tedium of being able to do nothing and enjoy so little.

   

  

 

 

 

Popper on Freedom and Creative Turbulence

Against the claim that an aim like this can be formulated sufficiently clearly and definitely, many objections have been raised. It has been said that once it is recognized that freedom must be limited, the whole principle of freedom breaks down, and the question what limitations are necessary and what are wanton cannot be decided rationally, but only by authority. But this objection is due to a muddle. It mixes up the fundamental question of what we want from a state with certain important technological difficulties in the way of the realization of our aims. It is certainly difficult to determine exactly the degree of freedom that can be left to the citizens without endangering that freedom whose protection is the task of the state. But that something like an approximate determination of that degree is possible is proved by experience, i.e. by the existence of democratic states. In fact, this process of approximate determination is one of the main tasks of legislation in democracies. It is a difficult process, but its difficulties are certainly not such as to force upon us a change in our fundamental demands. These are, stated very briefly, that the state should be considered as a society for the prevention of crime, i.e. of aggression. And the whole objection that it is hard to know where freedom ends and crime begins is answered, in principle, by the famous story of the hooligan who protested that, being a free citizen, he could move his fist in any direction he liked; whereupon the judge wisely replied: ‘The freedom of the movement of your fists is limited by the position of your neighbour’s nose.’

The view of the state which I have sketched here may be called ‘protectionism’. The term ‘protectionism’ has often been used to describe tendencies which are opposed to freedom. Thus the economist means by protectionism the policy of protecting certain industrial interests against competition; and the moralist means by it the demand that officers of the state shall establish a moral tutelage over the population. Although the political theory which I call protectionism is not connected with any of these tendencies, and although it is fundamentally a liberal theory, I think that the name may be used to indicate that, though liberal, it has nothing to do with the policy of strict non-intervention (often, but not quite correctly, called ‘ laissez-faire’). Liberalism and state-interference are not opposed to each other. On the contrary, any kind of freedom is clearly impossible unless it is guaranteed by the state. A certain amount of state control in education, for instance, is necessary, if the young are to be protected from a neglect which would make them unable to defend their freedom, and the state should see that all educational facilities are available to everybody. But too much state control in educational matters is a fatal danger to freedom, since it must lead to indoctrination. As already indicated, the important and difficult question of the limitations of freedom cannot be solved by a cut and dried formula. And the fact that there will always be borderline cases must be welcomed, for without the stimulus of political problems and political struggles of this kind, the citizens’ readiness to fight for their freedom would soon disappear, and with it, their freedom. (Viewed in this light, the alleged clash between freedom and security, that is, a security guaranteed by the state, turns out to be a chimera. For there is no freedom if it is not secured by the state; and conversely, only a state which is controlled by free citizens can offer them any reasonable security at all.)--Popper (1945) The Open Society & Its Enemies, 105-106

I had two motives to return to Popper. First, I wanted to use Popper's fanatically uncharitable reading of Plato (and Aristotle) to oppose Callard's literal reading and show how important and vital it is to "entangle those authors in contemporary power struggles." Second, and more important, to remind myself what Popper had to say about what he calls the "perennial revolt against freedom" (178) and "the significance of the perennial fight against" totalitarianism (xli). But I got distracted by the paragraphs above, which are a kind of lengthy aside in his diagnosis of Plato's totalitarianism, and so, if I comment on these two issues at all, it will be obliquely and indirectly (I return to this some other time).

Not unlike other liberal readers of Lippmann's (1938)  The Good Society -- Popper calls it a "most admirable book" in his first footnote (513) --, not the least the ORDOs, Popper rejects nineteenth century liberalism. The direct context of the passage is his defense of the idea that one can be a "social technologist" and "approach political problems rationally." (105; I don't mean to deny that Popper is a critic of certain other forms of social engineering.) The new form of liberalism will be one that presupposes state activity to achieve liberal ends constrained, as the first paragraph of the quoted passage shows, by the harm principle. 

But what caught my eye was Popper's claim that a free society requires creative turbulence conducive to freedom. This is an idea that is (recall) prominent in Machiavelli (who is strikingly absent in Popper's learned argument). Now, unlike Machiavelli, Popper does not claim such turbulence leads to the development of better institutions. But he does think that permanent political agonism is conducive to freedom.

The underlying idea seems to be that in a tranquil and consensual (and for Popper these seem near synonyms) polity, citizens would lose the habit of vigilance. Whereas in a state in which political challenges do not have the appearance of being permanent solved, political talents and mobilization are exercised. In particular, the citizens' capacity to resist the government's attempts to remove their freedoms and rights will then be contested. 

It is important to see that Popper's position is not Arendtian. He does not seem to think that political agonism is the highest or best form of life. Nor is he attracted to republican theories of non-domination. 

I mentioned Lippmann above, because he inherits from Lippmann the idea that politics is the working out, in the "spirit of adaptation," of differences of interests and resolving of social problems that arise from changing circumstances and the development of new technologies. But whereas Lippmann demands from legislators a juridical impartiality that is not to be expected given their incentives (and the imperfection of human nature), Popper expects a never ending "process of approximate determination." Almost alone of the great liberals  who had to confront the collapse liberalism before the Allied victory, Popper discerns that one cannot eliminate politics by some decision rule, a science of politics, or elite rule, or replacing politics by the market (or some combination thereof).

And while Popper rejects the political theory of Heraclitus’ and Empedocles' emphatically, he retains the idea that political life is one of open-ended strife. But here the strife is in the service of a system that ought to be ruled by the prevention of mutual harm. And by implication, what counts as harm is in some sense constantly contestable and contested. There is no neutral place where we have the luxury to treat each other as aliens. And while this sounds like a recipe for disaster, or a politics ground in Nietzschean will to power, Popper takes the fact that somewhat liberal states have existed as evidence for its evident possibility.

Some other time I return to Popper's analysis of the sociological preconditions of the maintenance of freedom (and also explore some of its limitations). But here I close with a thought.  There are plenty of sociological and argumentative reasons for the a peculiar fact that Popper's reputation is at a nadir among (political) philosophers today.* Even so revisiting him is to encounter the rare, adult appreciation of the political challenges of maintaining a liberal political life while being sympathetic to liberal ideals (in addition to the harm principle, he emphasizes the rule of law, and equal benefit from the law).+

There is also a good intellectual reason why his political philosophy has faded. His is also a demanding, perhaps too demanding, almost existentialist form of liberalism (hence my nod to Arendt). The politics of freedom is not an intellectual game; there is no refuge from its demands. There are no slogans -- free speech, human rights, etc.--  that can circumvent the demands of judgment. "Personal responsibility" is a phrase that is repeated repetitively throughout the Open Society. For Popper this includes (but is not exhausted by) a willingness to judge others for the uptake of their ideas, and, reciprocally, a demand to be held accountable for them by other persons. 

Seneca's Letter 46: On Living in an Age of Lies

1. I received the book of yours which you promised me. I opened it hastily with the idea of glancing over it at leisure; for I meant only to taste the volume. But by its own charm the book coaxed me into traversing it more at length. You may understand from this fact how eloquent it was; for it seemed to be written in the smooth style, and yet did not resemble your handiwork or mine, but at first sight might have been ascribed to Titus Livius or to Epicurus. Moreover, I was so impressed and carried along by its charm that I finished it without any postponement. The sunlight called to me, hunger warned, and clouds were lowering; but I absorbed the book from beginning to end.

2. I was not merely pleased; I rejoiced. So full of wit and spirit it was! I should have added "what force [quid impetus!]," had the book contained moments of repose, or had it risen to energy only at intervals. But I found that there was no burst of force, but an even flow, a style that was vigorous and chaste. Nevertheless I noticed from time to time your sweetness, and here and there that mildness of yours. Your style is lofty and noble; I want you to keep to this manner and this direction. Your subject also contributed something; for this reason you should choose productive topics, which will lay hold of the mind and arouse it.

3. I shall discuss the book more fully after a second perusal; meantime, my judgment is somewhat unsettled, just as if I had heard it read aloud, and had not read it myself. You must allow me to examine it also. You need not be afraid; you shall hear the truth. Lucky fellow, to offer a man no opportunity to tell you lies at such long range! Unless perhaps, even now, when excuses for lying are taken away, custom serves as an excuse for our telling each other lies!--Letter 46, Translated by Richard Mott Gummere (with minor corrections).

We learn in the first sentence of this letter that Lucilius is not merely aspiring to wisdom, but also an author. It invites us, thus, to reflect on the transaction between Seneca and Lucilius, and the interest of the latter in Seneca.

In this brief letter, Seneca seems to distinguish among three kinds of reading-styles: (i) tasting a book, which is brief and impressionistic; (ii) immersive reading, which is hurried yet thorough; and (iii) regurgitative reading, which involves re-reading a book. (Seneca compares (ii) with hearing a text.) To over-read a bit: according to Seneca only regurgitative reading -- this reminded me of Nietzsche -- can generate a truth, or at least a truth that can be heard (verum audies).

The last sentence of the epistle alerts us to the larger socio-political context of the exchange. Seneca implies that they live in a duplicitous public culture where the habit of lying is deeply entrenched.* Whether Seneca thinks this is merely a function of Nero's particular rule or the collapse of the republic or politics as such is left obscure. 

Strikingly, Seneca explicitly presents himself as a regurgitative reader who will articulate truth, eventually. But the implicature is, I think, that to hear the truths he will say certain virtues (of the would be audience) must be present: patience, a willingness to re-read and examine carefully, and a certain free-spiritedness [freely reinterpreting, Non est quod verearis]. That is to say, in a letter to a proud author, Seneca is telling us how to be an attentive reader of (his) works. 

Seneca has already made clear that he is writing for posterity (recall Letter 21; Letter 29). But not the first time I note that the beneficiaries of his writings are supposed to be alert to the fact that he expects us to understand that his writings conceal his message from some certain kinds of readers. I mention this not to remind the reader of Seneca's interest in the art of esotericism. Rather, and in particular, he invites us to reflect on how our culture and, thus, our habitual dispositions distort our receptivity toward truth.  

 

On Commanding to be Philosophers: a tentative response to Agnes Callard

You might think that undergraduate teaching is a case of “doing philosophy with non-philosophers”—public philosophy within academia. But that would be a mistake. It is true that most of the undergraduates to whom I assign, e.g., Plato’s Republic will not major in philosophy, let alone continue with graduate education. Nonetheless, in my classroom, they are philosophers, if only for a few hours a week. The institutional structure—the syllabus, the assignments, the grades, my status as Professor, even the physical and social characteristics of the classroom—make it possible for me to tell them to be philosophers. I instruct them to engage directly with questions of whether the soul has parts or whether justice is the advantage of the stronger or whether poetry corrupts; and, amazingly enough, they do it.

To say that they engage directly with those questions is to say that their engagement is not tied to the following considerations:

(1) The fact (if it is one) that answering those questions will help them do something else that they were doing anyways. I don’t promise them answers, let alone helpful ones.

(2) The fact (if it is one) that they find it fun or pleasant or intellectually stimulating. They have to do the reading, come to class, write papers—whether or not they enjoy it.

We do philosophy for its own sake, because its questions are important, not because it is useful or pleasant.-- Agnes Callard "Is Public Philosophy Good?" (emphasis in original [HT: Dailynous])

Callard's piece has generated online discussion in virtue of her claims about the nature and practice of public philosophy. Since that is a topic I have said all I wish to say thus far,+ here I want to reflect a bit on what Callard -- an increasingly prominent scholar (see here for example) -- has to say about her classroom. I call my remarks 'tentative' for a few reasons: first, it is possible Callard does not intend her description of her classroom to be exemplary of proper philosophical education. That is, that rather than holding up the institutional features of her teaching as a kind of widely accepted norm, she is merely doing autobiography. I think it would be a 'mistake' to interpret her like that, but can't rule it out. Second, as regular readers know (recall here; here; here), I think there are good reasons having to do with privacy and vulnerability as well as the trust of one's students to be cautious about discussing one's class-room experiences in public. Third, often what is said about class-room stance represents a kind of public image one wishes to project rather than the messy reality.

Even so, I was struck, even unpleasantly struck by the authoritarian elements in Callard's self-presentation. After some reflection, I have to admit that part of the shock is recognizing one's own authoritarianism in the description of the other. Unlike some colleagues, I don't let me students vote or set the curriculum, and not unlike Callard, I impose all kinds of structures and demands on my students that make possible, so I tell myself, the conditions of their philosophizing in the class-room. And so, after further reflection, I also allow it's possible that others can be commanded into philosophy. 

Even so, what I miss in Callard's description are four non-trivial features: first, there is the absence of play. In Laws, Plato's Athenian stranger repeatedly presents education as a form of serious play, culminating in his statement (803c) that, when we are properly cultivated, our education lasts a life-time, "playing at the noblest of pastimes." It's true that play is only indirectly useful. (Some forms of play -- like war-games -- may be highly useful to the polity.) But it's peculiar not to allow it a pleasure proper to it. The questions of philosophy may be important and self-justifying, and the philosophical-life impossible to justify (because hopelessly comic or mad to others), but it strikes me as odd to ignore that philosophical education is, despite moments of frustration, pleasurable in all kinds of ways. 

More important, second, while play presupposes rules, what's especially interesting about philosophical education is the ongoing mastery and simultaneous overcoming of rules. The previous sentence may strike one as bizarre if one reduced philosophy to nothing but sound/valid argument (which, let's stipulate, is rule-governed). But learning how to ask philosophical questions (recall) is simultaneously rule-governed, taught through repeated practice/drilling, an imitation of the best, and creative innovation.

That is, the play analogy reminds us that philosophical education is also a means toward something new. This is the third point I wish to make. In play, we interact and through our interaction we may reach a point wholly new. This is possible in the class room, when we are receptive to learning from our students. A class discussion is an invitation to have a joint exploration. The last point may be distinctive of liberal education: a receptivity toward letting one's students discover is characteristic of such an education. Rather than magisterially conveying a fixed body of knowledge (say in a huge lecture course), in a philosophy classroom, the discussion is part of a path of discovery, even if it is often a dead-end. A liberal  education is not risk averse. Discussions can fail. 

Of course, in practice, one may well have an agenda for a typical class discussion (the distinction between primary and secondary qualities must be covered, etc.), and experienced teachers often guide discussion toward a known destination. But the best kind of teaching is receptive toward the students' perspectives, and invites them into an open-ended discussion, including ones on the nature of a philosophical question. These are not merely given (as Callard seems to suggest), but always and everywhere up for re/new-articulation.

Let me close with a final, fourth observation: I have now repeatedly used the word 'invitation.' I do so because, in a different context, discussing the pragmatics of sexual intimacy, Rebecca Kukla calls attention to the significance of inviting others to joint activity.* I quote a relevant passage:

Invitations leave the invitee free to accept or reject them. If you turn down my invitation, I get to be disappointed, but not aggrieved (although I can feel aggrieved if it is turned down rudely or insultingly). An interesting quirk of invitations is that, if they are accepted, gratitude is called for both from the inviter and the invitee. I thank you for coming to my dinner, and you thank me for having you. [emphasis in original]

Invitations are (as Kukla emphasizes) norm-governed and compatible with differences in power, status, and knowledge. Not all students accept the invitation to philosophize in one's class room. This can be due to the character of the teacher (my style is not for everyone) or to the student's disposition at the time. Such students, the ones that refuse our invitation, can still pass the course, even with flying colors. But the students who engage in philosophy -- partially constrained by rules of logic and the curriculum -- are often grateful for the opportunity; and indeed deserve gratitude, even awe. 

 

On Teaching The History of Comparative Political Philosophy

Lectures prepared beforehand and spouted in the presence of a throng have in them more noise but less intimacy. Philosophy is good advice; and no one can give advice at the top of his lungs. Of course we must sometimes also make use of these harangues, if I may so call them, when a doubting member needs to be spurred on; but when the aim is to make a man learn and not merely to make him wish to learn, we must have recourse to the low-toned words of conversation.--Seneca, Letter 38.translated by Richard Mott Gummere.

Last Spring, for the first time, I taught a 14-session (7 week) required, survey course -- an extended sprint really -- on the history of political theory. (I teach in a political science department.) Each session involves a 90 minute lecture (interrupted by a fifteen minute break.) The course I inherited was organized around excerpts from primary texts by the usual canonical figures. These were all male, except for Wollstonecraft, and the underlying vision involved commitment to progress made during European modernity.* It had been previously taught in Dutch. Because our department was transitioning to a taught English language BA (which ended up more than doubling our undergraduate major), it seemed like an opportune moment to attempt a redesign of the course in order to make it more cosmopolitan in outlook,+ especially because there had been considerable campus discussion and controversy about de-colonizing the canon. 

I was nervous about taking on the course because I view speaking for a large audience as a pact with the devil. You have to be willing to be an entertainer. Since I prefer seminars on a single text, I knew that this course would demand a discarding of my educational principles. But I decided the intellectual challenge of redesigning the course might be worth the effort. 

Then the panic hit.

I have no training in comparative history of philosophy/political thought. Even so,  I had been aware that this is something worth exploring since 2013, when, while I was trying out some ideas for my introduction to an edited volume on Sympathy: A History, a commentator at NewAPPS, Patrick S. O'Donnell, called my attention to the resonances between sympathy in the post-Platonic tradition and Buddhist thought. It was too late to change the volume, but the point had been made to me.

As it happens, shortly after that blog post, after switching disciplines and moving to The University of Amsterdam, I was encouraged to develop a course in 'non Western political theory.' (Of course, I had moved to a political science department, in part, to do more 'applied' research (on bank regulation; modern expertise, etc.) not to broaden my historical scholarship!) Regular readers know, I dislike the phrase 'western philosophy'(recall here and here), and when it comes up in class, I tell my students that Ibn Tufayl and Ibn Rushd, writing in what we would call Spain (and so to the west of Amsterdam), both understood themselves as western theorists (trying to scale the heights of occidental philosophy as epitomized by Ibn Sinna, Al-Ghazali, and Al-Farabi)! I chose to offer a course on classical, Islamic Political theory (these days the course runs from Al-Farabi to Ibn Khaldun.)**

The choice for Islamic political theory is partly motivated by the fact that contemporary Dutch political culture has an entirely negative obsession with Islam. It is completely routine in the Dutch media to see Dutch journalists and intellectuals treat 'Islamic' as synonymous with 'backward' and lacking any intellectual content at all. These intellectuals also project ignorance of earlier Dutch engagements with Islam, most notably the colonial past in Indonesia, onto the present. The aim of the Islamic political theory course is to correct this ignorance in a visible fashion, by treating the political theory of its golden age nearly entirely on its own terms.++ Because in graduate school, I had taken a fantastic seminar by the late Ian Mueller on medieval philosophy, which emphasized late platonism and Maimonides, and I am somewhat of an expert on Spinoza, I figured Islamic political theory would be a natural extension of my expertise. I even hoped it would help me in my ongoing research on Spinoza.* 

Because of my near total lack of Arabic and lack of grounding in the history of Islam, I still feel like an imposter while teaching the course. But sometimes I have native Arabic speakers in the course, and I let them help with translation issues. While I would never pretend to be a scholar of the period, teaching Islamic political theory annually gave me confidence to try to teach a survey of comparative history of political thought. It helps that I am rather doubtful about the very idea of progress.

Much to my surprise, my colleagues took an active interest in the evolving (notes toward a) syllabus of the course. There was genuine fear that I would displace shared background knowledge for unknown figures (some colleagues even revealed themselves as ardent lovers of the Enlightenment), that I would offer an unprincipled smörgåsbord or rijsttafel, of authors, that I was caving to political correctness, or engaging in empty symbolism. Because my ideas were in flux there were also quite legitimate fears that the course would simply fall flat.

Before I finalized the syllabus, I recognized that my lack of commitment to progress would allow me (i) to adopt a kind of symmetry principle such that all the authors and traditions could contribute to the unfolding narrative from a vantage point of equal standing: I was eager to convey to my students that (ii) political theory was not just the normative counterpart to empirical social science, but also a means toward thinking alternative models of reality and that (iii) political theory could be highly relevant to international relations (the primary interest of most of our undergraduates). 

Because there were constraints to the number of pages and texts I could assign, I decided on a half-way house: the first half of the course would be a truly comparative introduction with no author and tradition being privileged; the second half of the course would provide a version of the modern-arc, Hobbes to Weber (this year: Hobbes to Marx.) But the two parts would be connected thematically: first, by treating all my authors as part of a single debate on who should rule and how to select them (with sortition, meritocracy, kingship, elective kingship, and democracy all getting a fair hearing). Second, by discussing the same themes in different eras and traditions. So, for example, I would use Master Mo and Plato to offer models of the social contact that could complement, Hobbes, Locke, Spinoza, Rousseau, and Kant. I would use the Arthasasthra, alongside Machiavelli and Kant's Perpetual Peace to talk about international relations theory; I would use Mencius, Plato, and Weber to talk about the role of theory in correcting status quo bias; I would use Ibn Rushd and Wollstonecraft to contrast Platonic Feminism and egalitarian feminism; I used Al-Farabi, Locke, and Cugoano to contrast attitudes toward slavery, etc; I used Mill and Master Mo to discuss not just consequentialism, but also conformism; Wollstonecraft and Kant both end up in a fierce debate with Rousseau (my students' natural favorite). 

Some themes emerged by accident: my comparative introduction emphasized the benefits of (benevolent) social hierarchy, low taxes, and the rule of law; the challenges of pluralism and stability in any political order ran through the whole course, so did  the relationship between politics and religion. 

The final syllabus required making some genuinely tough decisions: it contained (almost) no Aristotle; no Augustine, Aquinas, Calvin, Hume, Montesquieu, and Madison. I ended with Weber (and so gave up Marx--this year I will try to end with Marx w/o Weber), emphasizing the connections to contemporary social science. While feminism was now an integral part of the course, I still only had one woman. (Something I will correct this year, probably by assigning de Pizan.) Due to limitations of source materials, I kept the focus on authors and particular texts, but where I was capable of doing so I immersed them in political and institutional context. (I am not sure that would work with philosophy students; political science students like political history.) And that allowed me to convey why political theory can be both immersed in a time, and offer models for alternative possibilities then and now. In all cases I tried to highlight why thinkers may be thought attractive and what one may find limiting. All the way, trying to convey key concepts that my students ought to remember. (The tests primarily focused on checking if they could recall concepts.) 

Much to my own amazement, the vast majority of the students liked the course a lot despite finding it very challenging. It's too early to say if this course really works.+++ I could not have taught it without help from experts in Ancient Asian philosophical thought[1] and encouragement from Meena Krishnamurthy who also considers the Arthasasthra a major work in political philosophy.[2] I intend to tinker with it during the next three to five years, while leaving the basic structure alone. (This year I may give up the session on Burke and Hegel, to do a session on empire and commerce.) In about four years I want to try to re-think it one more time and try to teach it as a genuine, comparative introduction to the history of political theory. 

Let me close. I don't think this is the only way that comparative history of political thought can be taught. (Feel free to email me if you want a syllabus.) And I do not deny that my course is not yet fully comparative. It still exhibits important patterns of exclusion, and it's quite likely that from a pedagogical perspective I tried to do too much.**** Intellectually it is a half-way house between a true comparative course and three cheers to the Enlightenment. But even so, I found it terrifying and exhilarating to teach; and (see here) now I understand myself as part of a larger trend of rethinking the undergraduate curriculum. I would love to hear your experiences, if any, in articulating a comparative curriculum.