Digressions&Impressions

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.  

 

 

 

On Teaching How to Ask Philosophical Questions (of Complicated Texts)

While complaining about Socrates, Thrasymachus claims that "it's easier to ask questions than to answer them." (Republic 336b) The claim seems self-evident because answers seem to be preceded by questions and we are all familiar with questions that have not been answered. In addition, it can huge take huge amount of resources to answer what appear to be straightforward questions. 

Even so, one reason why I have always been impressed by Newton's contributions is that his theory is full of answers to questions previously un-thought of. (For example, how do Saturn and Jupiter influence each other's orbits?) This suggests -- as a certain kind of Kantian might insist -- that some questions are only made possible by having the right cognitive structures (including the answers) in place.

Be that as it may, experienced instructors of philosophy are all familiar with the experience that some students ask interesting questions of the material we teach and other students, equally hardworking, ask questions that do not generate interesting discussion. Now, sometimes this can be explained in virtue of the  fact that some students have taken philosophy courses before and, through osmotic imitation and example, have acquired a style and genre of question-asking. But that pushes merely the issue back a layer.  I have a strong aversion to the idea that there is innate philosophical genius, so I prefer thinking that one might teach asking questions as a skill. In what follows I explain how I teach that.*

Below is an exercise I have used for more than a decade and a half in teaching. As I have  noted before I don't think of myself as a very gifted teacher, and I am not one of the folk that wins prizes for teaching. I do consistently get high marks for feedback, and that's partly due to what I am about to share.

I am pretty sure the exercise originated in frustration over students not doing the assigned readings. And I strongly suspect I was introduced to a version of it at Wesleyan (a place where teaching is taken very seriously) by a senior colleague (mea culpa for forgetting). But the assignment has evolved, and with learning software it has become more functional. Here's the exercise that I use in all my courses.

This assignment requires about 150 words (per assignment). The question should be submitted ahead of each seminar meeting on Canvas by 10am the morning of the class-meeting. It has two parts. 1. In the first line, formulate a focused question about the assigned text (and which we will discuss in class). It should consist of one question only. 2. Motivate this question on the basis of an analysis of the text, and provide proper references, quotes, and citations each time.

You need to go beyond the occasion of your question, that is, what prompts it, and explain the source or the reason behind the (conceptual/empirical) puzzle or the textual problem motivating your question. Do not answer your own question. Do not reason by way of further questions. Do not ask rhetorical questions. Try to avoid turning your question into a (thinly) disguised objection. Try not asking the same question as one previously posted.

The assignment has three main purposes: (i) to make sure everybody does the reading and is prepared to discuss it in class; (ii) to teach you the art of close reading; (iii) to teach you how to ask research questions.--Handout by Eric Schliesser

The students can read each other's questions. I always (try) to read them ahead of class (it helps me see what students  found problematic), and I use them in leading discussion. This adds to my prep time, but I find it very useful to have some insight into what my students are thinking ahead of class. Sometimes I let one of the students lead of discussion with their own question.  

In some courses, I require students to answer at least one of each other's questions after the class meeting (and ahead of the next one). This is especially useful if the course only meets once a week. I have had courses where this generated permanent online discussion by students about the course material. (In most courses, it's clearly just treated as a requirement.) This requirement requires additional instruction on the hand-out (they must cite their sources, make their evidence explicit, etc.); in particular, norms of politeness. I always monitor the discussion, but tend not to comment on it. (I do not correct mistakes, unless these interfere with my learning goals of a course.)

During the first weeks of a course, I provide detailed feedback on my students' questions without answering them. The majority of my feedback has a kind of formal character, e.g., 'you must include a bibliography;' 'remember, you can only ask one question;''notice that your question really involves three distinct issues;' 'you have given the occasion of your question, but you have  not explained it yet;' 'notice how the last three sentences of your explanation are not grounded in the text;' 'the way you have  phrased this question exhibits vagueness/or lacks focus,' etc. Sometimes I spend time on exhibiting the implied logical complexity of a question.

I never use my feedback to answer these assignments. But sometimes I make explicit a conceptual or textual confusion the student exhibits.  After a few weeks, most students get the assignment, and I reduce the feedback I provide. (Sometimes, in the second half of a course, I need to do a refresher week of feedback.)

In the past, my feedback to the students' assignments was always private. But  this year I am experimenting on sharing most of my feedback on canvas (it's like blackboard) so they can all learn from these.  (I do have option to send a private message in case i have a concern about the student's prep/participation, etc.)

In the past I did not grade the assignments individually, but used them to help shape (upward) my class participation grade. Because I now work in a more legalistic environment, which demands fuller transparency of grading, I now do give them a (rough) grade. (That is private!)

I don't claim all students  benefit from this assignment. But I believe it makes class discussion better than it would be. Students learn some writing skills: it teaches them to focus, to be explicit about the steps in their train of thought, and to learn to discover what the nub of the matter is. I also would argue that they learn to become better at helping themselves understand texts. 

In addition, I would argue the assignment teaches them how to read: by explaining their confusion(s) in this way, they discover their own hidden presuppositions that they (we all!) tend to project on the text; they learn to pay attention to dissonances and steps in an author's argument.

It's possible that this assignment works best with the kind of material I routinely teach: culturally and historically distant and rhetorically and conceptually complex texts about subjects my students may not encounter daily. But I have also used the technique in courses that were focused on arguments on fairly standard topics, and found it just as useful in that environment.

The downside (for some) is that this is a time-consuming way to teach. It also is rather demanding on the students -- many of which have, of course, very busy lives. But because the course is already rather writing intensive, I tend to require very short papers in order to establish the final grade.

One important effect of the assignment is that I can avoid having students trying to game me. (We all know instructors whose students basically echo what they say [including on exams].) The assignments are focused on the course material.

Does it teach students how to ask questions? I can't say for sure, given the confirmation bias I have. It obviously detracts from the possibility of doing different things with my students--the opportunity costs are not negligible. But when the assignment works well, the student has asked an interesting question, which is both well motivated by and grounded in the text and one that is not answered by the explanation of it as well as generates (in principle) fruitful class discussion about it. Is that sufficient evidence that it's interesting? I can't say for sure, but the assignment keeps me highly motivated to explore the course material jointly with my students.

Do you have ways or techniques to teach your students to ask interesting questions?

 

On Integrity

You know what I mean by a good man? One who is complete, finished, – whom no constraint or need can render bad. I see such a person in you, if only you go steadily on and bend to your task, and see to it that all your actions and words harmonize and correspond with each other and are stamped in the same mould [or form]. If a man's acts are out of harmony, his soul is discordant [discordant]--Seneca, Letter 34.

The underlying idea here is that we are not naturally bad, but that we are made bad by (to use anachronistic language) unsatisfied preferences.  We can, thus, avoid being bad by reducing desires (need) or by removing impediments to their satisfaction (constraint). In the surface of this letter, Seneca treats the two strategies symmetrically. (In some other places he sounds more 'Stoic' by advocating the elimination of need. ) The badness consists in a lack of (what I call, recall) philosophical integrity between one's articulated ideals and actions. 

Seneca here does not really confront the possibility of somebody having integrity between ideals and actions not worth having. That's because he makes two assumptions: first, and this is unstated, the unworthy ideals all presuppose desires that can't be satisfied. This is not so question-begging as it seems: most, quite ordinary forms of badness presuppose lack of moderation. But it's an open question if integrity, which is a kind of internal relation, always has (again to use anachronism) external validity.

Second, Seneca assumes the existence of the worthiness of a station and with it associated duties and tasks [id egeris]. This means that are station-relative duties are assumed to be self-justifying (as long as they do not prompt immoderate desires, etc.). Here, too, Seneca does not confront the possibility that one's station supports a status quo -- when those in charge are bad, and the empire they rule, bad too -- not worth having. As the tutor to Nero, and now former tutor, Seneca had ample time to reflect on the problem (familiar to us already from Tacitus). One sometimes wonders how many dutiful public servants recognize the problem. 

This gets me to the underlying topic of the letter, which is about the nature of claiming somebody else as a student. Seneca, treats it -- and ongoing instruction -- as something violent akin to grabbing a runaway slave. Such violence may be legally sanctioned, of course. But it does not follow it is wanted.* More interestingly, perhaps, is that thereby Seneca grants that claiming somebody else as one's student is a characteristically immoderate even narcissistic action: he is explicit that for him it is the projection of an image  of one's former self onto another. As if teaching another is really tantamount to redoing one's own life with the benefit of hindsight and, thereby, be rejuvenated--teaching as a means toward one's own immortality (in thought0.

The whole letter amounts to Seneca asserting [contrary, perhaps, the evidence of the Meno and Protagoras] that virtue can be taught -- and perhaps he even thinks that such assertion makes it more likely --, while simultaneously drawing attention to the fact that the very practices of teaching are implicated in a whole number of institutions  and practices that seem to violate virtue (and rely on self-deception).  It's an open question if the fruits of such an education can justify the means.

It's easy to imagine that when Seneca draws attention to himself, he does so as an exemplar worth emulating. But the alternative possibility -- that he draws attention to his own excessive needs as a path worth avoiding -- cannot be ruled out. 

On the Xenophobia of Mainstream Philosophy

Mainstream philosophy in the so-called West is narrow-minded, unimaginative, and even xenophobic. I know I am levelling a serious charge. But how else can we explain the fact that the rich philosophical traditions of China, India, Africa, and the Indigenous peoples of the Americas are completely ignored by almost all philosophy departments in both Europe and the English-speaking world?

Western philosophy used to be more open-minded and cosmopolitan. The first major translation into a European language of the Analects, the saying of Confucius (551-479 BCE), was done by Jesuits, who had extensive exposure to the Aristotelian tradition as part of their rigorous training. They titled their translation Confucius Sinarum Philosophus, or Confucius, the Chinese Philosopher (1687)....

So why did things change? As [Peter] Park convincingly argues [in Africa, Asia, and the History of Philosophy: Racism in the Formation of the Philosophical Canon (2014)], Africa and Asia were excluded from the philosophical canon by the confluence of two interrelated factors. On the one hand, defenders of the philosophy of Immanuel Kant (1724-1804) consciously rewrote the history of philosophy to make it appear that his critical idealism was the culmination toward which all earlier philosophy was groping, more or less successfully.

On the other hand, European intellectuals increasingly accepted and systematised views of white racial superiority that entailed that no non-Caucasian group could develop philosophy. (Even St Augustine, who was born in northern Africa, is typically depicted in European art as a pasty white guy.) So the exclusion of non-European philosophy from the canon was a decision, not something that people have always believed, and it was a decision based not on a reasoned argument, but rather on polemical considerations involving the pro-Kantian faction in European philosophy, as well as views about race that are both scientifically unsound and morally heinous...Bryan Van Norden "Western philosophy is racist: Academic philosophy in ‘the West’ ignores and disdains the thought traditions of China, India and Africa. This must change"@Aeon

Bryan Van Norden's essay, which has been shared widely on social media, is in one sense overdue and in other sense quite puzzling. First, it is important to be clear and forthright about the history of racism and xenophobia that is a recurring pattern in the philosophical tradition developed out of Plato. There are really four distinct, albeit often conflated, temptations in the tradition(s) arising out of Plato: (i) the positing of a cognitive hierarchy that, for all its complexity, is tied to ethnicity/race/geography (recall these). Obviously, ethnicity, race, and geography are not identical, so if you wish you can distinguish among them. Such a hierarchy is tied to (ii) a hierarchy of value or political right (recall). The hierarchy underwrites (iii) various kinds of eugenic programs (recall these). Philosophy is characterized by (iv) a double movement in which there is a polemic with sophism or some other false philosophy, while simultaneously so-called 'rustic wisdom' is simply effaced (my posts on rustic wisdom here, here, and here).

While there is much to rejoice about a robust defense of open-mindedness and cosmopolitanism, these are not identical. It is worth noting thus, that one can reject (i-iv) without being a cosmopolitan. For, one can be an open-minded particularist or localist. Throughout his piece, Van Norden tacitly assumes that the only (legitimate) default position is cosmopolitanism. While there are days I am fond of a cosmopolitan eclecticism that draws on many traditions, it is important to recognize that there are alternative options that do not re-inscribe the vices of the Platonic tradition. One may well think that one reason to explore other traditions is to become more fully aware of the peculiarities and vices of one's own tradition in order to extend it knowingly and with care (to avoid its past vices). My own (somewhat amateur) sense is that the previous sentence describes well (albeit superficially) the attitude within many traditions worth having.

I don't mean to sound sour about Van Norden's piece. It's not just that I think it's much better than last year's famous NYT editorial (co-authored with Jay Garfield; recall my response).* I am especially pleased he begins the long overdue and important process of assimilating the insights of Said's Orientalism to professional philosophy (and not to leave these to subaltern studies). But I don't think Van Norden takes it seriously enough in the Aeon piece. (Maybe he does so in his book.)

This becomes clear if we reflect on two peculiar omissions in Van Norden's narrative (which draws on Park's book, Africa, Asia, and the History of Philosophy: Racism in the Formation of the Philosophical Canon (2014)): first, the absence of imperialism or military (and increasingly economic) superiority of European states.+ (Somewhat ironically, German imperialism outside Europe was not as successful as some of its European rivals, and this may well have something to do with its rather intensive identification with an image of Greek culture and philosophy.) Second, it is precisely Kantian cosmopolitanism, with its progressive vision of a history that tends toward a global confederacy if not world republic state, that suited these imperialist, racialist tendencies. (Here, too, we must also note that Kant's philosophy provides resources for a more ennobling cosmopolitanism--of the sort that Van Norden seems to embrace!) These omissions have in common an unwillingness to contextualize (or historicize) the history of philosophy.++ But with the revival of military and economic power of the great Asian cultures, and the opening up of Anglo-American campuses in the region, we should expect increasing interest in the philosophies of these cultures as well as exciting developments of hybrid philosophies (see some remarks at the end of this piece).

Let me close with an observation. Van Norden claims that "mainstream philosophy in the so-called West is narrow-minded, unimaginative, and even xenophobic."** But his evidence for this is (a) primarily historical (that is, facts about the canon); (b) curricular lacunae in professional philosophy; and (c) reports of particular acts of xenophobia by members some departments. All of this is deplorable. But it is not evidence for his claim that "mainstream philosophy in the so-called West is narrow-minded, unimaginative, and even xenophobic." For, most of professional philosophy (that is, the hegemonic analytic tradition) the historical canon is at best a teaching device. The canon's influence is, of course, large, but largely indirect and often only obliquely recognized by leading practitioners. While one can grant that the curriculum prevents the encouragement of the full play of the imagination, there is, in fact, an adventurous spirit in today's philosophical scene with lots of hybrid projects underway (some of which I have tried to document here at Digressions). That is to say, Van Norden does not engage the 'mainstream' and so fails to unmask it.*** That's his right. But without such a more thoroughgoing engagement -- cf. Said on 'Orientalism' -- one can predict that only the converted will be convinced. That's all of our loss.+++

..

On Surveys of the History of Political Philosophy/Theory

After  the death of Mohammed in 632, Islam began a triumphant century of conquests. These victories, which left Islam the dominant force in the wealthy Eastern Mediterranean, destroyed what was left of the urban cultural base of the Roman Empire.--Dick Howard (2010) The Primacy of the Political: A History of Political Thought from the Greeks to the French & American Revolutions (Columbia UP), 140.

The quoted passage is just about the only mention of Islam in Howard's book. The passage represents Islam as a powerful military force. It also treats it -- I will grant that this is unintentional -- as destructive of civilization. The contributions to political theory by Islamic thinkers go unmentioned. Howard's book is a survey. It claims to be a History of Political Thought, but outside of Europe and North Atlantic, it fails to cover the other traditions of political theory inspired by Plato. Of course, Islamic-Platonic political theory was also practiced in Europe (e.g., Spain), so the previous sentence is far too generous. This is not the only oversight. While Howard mentions the significance of women and family relations throughout the book, he fails to discuss any female thinkers let alone treat any of them (or a group of them) as worthy of a chapter.+

Alan Ryan's (much larger and) more sophisticated On Politics, mentions some of the leading Islamic philosophers in chapter 6, titled "Between Augustine and Aquinas." But it treats them as metaphysicians and contrasts them with the (somewhat later) Ibn Khaldun, who is considered as the first Islamic political theorist. Now as regular readers know, I am a huge fan of Ibn Khaldun (recall here and here), but this is ignorance about Al-Farabi and those he inspired as well as the roots of key moves in later history of political thought.** (It's not that Ryan ignores their role as transmitter of the Ancients.) Ryan does better on more recent, anti-colonial, twentieth century Islamic  thought; he is clearly fascinated by Sayyid Qutb. And it is not impossible that Sayyid Qutb's  polemical rejection of the Islamic philosophical tradition as somehow not really "true Muslim philosophy", may have encouraged Ryan to treat it as a topic that can be safely ignored. (That can't be the whole story because Ryan also recognizes that Qutb himself is being extremely inventive about the history of Islam.)

On women's role in the history of political theory, Ryan does somewhat better than Howard. While no woman gets her own chapter, the text is at least sprinkled with references to female thinkers and De Pizan gets serious attention. Peculiarly, feminist manifestos are seen as responding to foolishness and lacking political implications. (Because Ryan is unaware of Ibn Rushd's political theory and Platonic feminism (recall), he also suggests that other than Plato nobody drew the conclusion that political capacity and authority had nothing to do with birth and sex)*

Okay, so much for my polemic and brief survey of the field of historical surveys of political theory. Some other time I'll reflect on the presuppositions that make this kind of practice normal. This post was prompted by my search for a decent textbook to use in a rather massive (300-400 students) first year, Intro to History of Political Theory lecture course (from Plato to Marx) that I have been asked to teach. Our teaching coordinators frown on teaching such first year courses from primary texts alone and -- because an exam is given -- encourage the use of a text-book. 

As an aside, most of my scholarly friends in the profession prefer to teach through primary sources. (This has as nice side-effect that our teaching is both research-led and can lead to fruitful research.) And, having  gone through The University of Chicago, I, too, share the prejudice. But even for us  -- text snobs -- surveys are not trivial; they provide the narrative arc that, if they are written by somebody influential and creative, hovers in the back of our minds and quietly seeps into our teaching and research. In addition, these surveys are also the face of our discipline to many students and wider public. 

So, right now, I am still looking for a survey of the history of political philosophy/theory that, in addition to ordinary requirements (competence and nicely written), has three more, moderate desiderata:

    (i) some coverage of political theory outside of Europe/North America, and coverage of Islam (within Europe).

• We are constantly being told about globalization and clash of civilizations, but we allow ourselves to be ignorant of the theories that inspire alternative forms of political reflection.

    (ii) no ignoring of demography, imperialism, racism, eugenics, and slavery (and theoretical debates about these)

• With the rise of concern of global warming and trans-humanism, there is renewed interest in demography and eugenics; these are perennial topics in the history of political theory (and so are questions over  social hierarchy). 

    (iii) some interest in history of feminism female and male -- (and the theoretical debates about it)

• Feminism has a long history. We flatter ourselves and our students by pretending its novel; such flattery only promotes conformism.

So, this gets me to my question: anybody have suggestions for a history of political theory from a cosmopolitan perspective?* I need a text rather urgently.:)

If non exists, who will step up to write it and which publisher will commission it? 

 

 

On Discussing Teaching

During the academic year, the most consuming element of my professional life is my teaching. However, relatively little of that passion is reflected in these Impressions. Sometimes, I report a new insight or  approach that is the consequence of my class preps or, better yet, classroom discussion (as I note in the footnotes). But while I would be the last person to deny that I teach, in part, to learn new stuff -- and so I often teach material that I am willing to grapple with (anew or for the first time), the great mission and frequent joy of teaching is not just to convey certain material or knowledge, but also, perhaps primarily so, to help others develop themselves as thinkers, writers, reasoners, public speakers, citizens, and human beings. (The order is not necessarily the order of importance and not all of these are the proximate aim of each course.) I don't mean this just in an idealistic sense; except for the few occassions when my salary was de facto covered by a huge endowment or more directly by a research grant -- this covers a lot of my previous academic employment -- it also pays the bills. 

Long before I thought of myself as a would-be-researcher, I knew I wanted to become a college professor. The year after college, my IR teacher, Richard Eichenberg, Ike, (recall) asked me if I wanted TA a section of his Big Intro to IR course. I found it challenging and exhilerating to lead discussion and convey the course material in a way that the students could grasp it. It was not the first time I had to think really about the perspective of another (I had been dating), but it was the first time in which I had to think consciously about the perspective of many others at the same time. In graduate school, I volunteered to TA in my first year, and taught every year of graduate school. So, I have been teaching pretty much without interruption since 1994. It's cliché, but I always say to kids contemplating a career in academia, do try out teaching because while it definitely involves a set of skills and dispositions that can be acquired, if you don't like it you'll be unhappy quite a bit of the time.

Now, before I continue, I don't think of myself as an especially stellar teacher (recall here about my time at Wesleyan; and here my sense of my limitations as a PhD supervisor). And this post is not meant to be one of those let me be sage and share with you my philosophy of education pontifications. To use another cliche, I am still developing as a teacher, and I have, in fact, been confronted with my limitations (my lack of skills in some respects) by returning to a massive political science department after teaching (rather well prepared) philosophy students for most of my adult life. In fact there is no need for me to pontificate about my philosophy of education because there is quite a bit of that in the blogosphere already which relays best practices in teaching (syllabi, class room facilitation, the use of technology, life-long learning, etc.). There is also quite a bit of comraderie with teachers sharing the hilarity and horror that is routine in our jobs (about unread syllabi, mistakes on essays, the excuses for missed deadlines, etc.).

But there is very little, I feel, that does justice to my class room experience with my students  and all the ideosyncratic encounters that I have with them that are, apologies for the jargon, the essence of teaching and being taught as an educator. Because privacy laws and norms have become strict, the only reasonable stance, I feel, is reticence. But this comes at a price: I can't really discuss or write about in depth what I am most passionate about. (Of course, there is an omerta among direct colleagues, so one sometimes shares an annecdote.)

It's not that I think the privacy norms/laws are mistaken, but somewhere there should be a space to develop shared conversations about teaching students, who are not (thereby) reduced to learning outcomes and conversations where one not only focuses on the 'let me tell you what I do that works well [or not] on average with [my] students [or that has been shown to do so in some study]' or on 'how discussing the greats books with kids at selective colleges reinvigorates western civilization.' (All of which also has a place.) And, of course, there should be a place where we all learn from our model-colleagues whose teaching clearly promotes social justice, or combines activism with scholarship, and who we all can admire, but for many of us that's not -- I venture to submit -- really in accord with what we experience.

Now, in the interest of privacy, Freudian analysts disguise key biographical and identifying features of their patients in their case histories. I ignore here how successful they were in doing so; I have long toyed with adopting such a practice in order to discuss some of the more interesting and challenging teaching situations I have faced with friends and peers or in the writing about philosophy of education. But besides seeming pretentious, it also seems false to me -- cause I am not interested in cases or symptology; and, also, I have always had the suspicion that the Freudian move to disguise identifying features, ends up changing the substance of the matter.

Now, because teaching is self-justifying, I am not suggesting that the inability to have a sustained conversation about my particular experiences diminishes the teaching. But it does feel like something is missing that could be worthy.

So, it occurred to me to write this post and ask for suggestions on how you reflect on your experiences of/during/with teaching.

 

 

On Translation, in Analytic Philosophy

One of the the peculiarities of the analytic tradition is that if you say, "I am interested in translation in analytic philosophy," people are more likely to talk about Quine (or Davidson) rather than about the peculiar fact that many of the works of early analytic philosophy are the product of translation. As Glock suggests,* with an amusing anecdote about Quine, the Polish logicians became known, first, in German. Leaving aside those writing in English, those that were not translated into German were often forgotten unless they were later translated into English.

As an aside, this historical oblivion happened, in fact, to quite a number of the female members of the Lvov-Warsaw School (where Twardowski had quite a few such students) many of whom only published in Polish. It is somewhat depressing, for example, that outside Poland, Kokoszyńska, who did publish at least one paper in German, is now primarily known as a bathroom distraction in G.A. Cohen's famous impersonation of Tarski's lecture on the error in Leśniewski's theorem. I am not claiming that lack of translation is the only source of historical oblivion; analytic philosophy's relationship to its own past is a complex one.

But, of course, now that English is The Frankish (lingua franca) of analytic philosophy (and scientific culture more generally) some of our classic texts are primarily known in translation. I was surprised to learn recently, for example, not only that anybody (Hacker & Schulte) tried to improve on the Anscombe's influential translation (of the Investigations), but that, in fact, it had been turned into a fourth edition. I had missed the intervening editions. One wonders if this (4th ed) is a nice case of truth in advertising -- a revised translation changes the book substantially and so should count as a new edition -- or better understood as a marketing gimmick (given that Wittgenstein's text presumably has been left alone; the book is not advertised as a 'critical edition,' after all). Because I don't co-inhabit space with Wittgenstein  scholars these days, I am unsure to what degree debates over  Ogden/Ramsey vs Pears/McGuinness (still) exist (see here for useful site).

I am, in fact, unsure who generated the best known sentence in the history of analytic philosophy, the Swiftian sounding "The Nothing Noths." I leave aside here the tricky question to what degree the sentence is merely mentioned or used and abused by analytic philosophy. I had always assumed that "The Nothing Noths" was produced by Arthur Pap in his translation of  Carnap's treatment of Heidegger, Das Nichts nichtet. Pap (ultimately a student of Ernest Nagel), whose influence on the shaping of analytic philosophy's self-image tends to get ignored, did a bad job on the title -- there is a real distinction between overcoming metaphysics (a straightforward and philosophically resonant translation of Carnap's title) and eliminating it, which gives analytic philosophy a more militarist sensibility [even if somebody may argue that the difference is merely symbolic (one ought to take symbols seriously)]. But, in fact, unless I am missing something, Pap's translation does not contain "The Nothing Noths," but rather the far more ugly "The Nothing Nothings." The earliest source I can find (on Google, that is) is Peter Achinstein's (1985)) The Nature of Explanation (where Heidegger is mentioned, but Carnap not!); but (with all due respect to Achinstein who was quite influential in those days), I suspect it was given wide currency by David Lewis in 1988, and then finds its way into the literature on Carnap and Heidegger! (But maybe Ayer is the source).

Despite The Nothing Noths, in general Carnap was not blessed in his translators. I don't think George's Logical Structure of the World really conveys the meaning of Der Logische Aufbau der Welt. (When I first heard the title of the book in English, I thought it was a book in the philosophy of physics.) The Logical Construction of the World would have better conveyed both the agency and progressivity involved (not to mention the resonances with  Kantianism).

To the best of my knowledge, little attention is paid to the quality of translations of early analytic philosophy (for my own earlier musings on translation more generally recall here, here, here, and here). The relevant comparison class is the focus on, and heated controversies over, the translations of Plato, Aristotle, Kant, Descartes, and perhaps Spinoza. This is a bit surprising if one takes Quine's once influential ideas about translation (and holism) seriously. But not so surprising not just because 'we're all realists now,' but also (i) because we really don't introduce our students into analytic philosophy by way of study of our canonical texts--we are a progressive enterprise and our students deserve to be introduced to the  topic by way of contemporary works on the cutting edge (or text-books). (This was less true when there was still an active cult of Wittgenstein.) I think that's pretty much the whole truth. But there is also an ironic fact, that when we do assign the early analytics to  undergrads, the English versions have become canonical, no?***

 

Ál-Ghazali's Criticism of the Philosophers

All they have to say about the moral sciences comes down to listing the qualities and habits of the soul, and recording their generic and specific kinds, and the way to  cultivate the good ones and combat the bad. This they simply took over from the sayings of the Sufis. These were godly men who applied themselves assiduously to invoking God, resisting passion, and following the way leading to God Most High by shunning worldly pleasures. In the course of their spiritual combat the good habits of the soul and its shortcomings had been disclosed to them and also the defects that vitiate its actions. All this they set forth plainly. Then the philosophers took over these ideas and mixed them with their own doctrines, using the lustre afforded by them to promote the circulation of their own false teaching. There was indeed in their age, nay but there is in every age, a group of godly men of whom God Most High never leaves the world destitute. For they are the pillars of the earth, and by their blessings the divine mercy descends upon earthdwellers as is declared in the tradition from Muhammad — God’s blessing and peace be upon him! — in which he says: “Because of them you receive rain, and thanks to them you receive sustenance, and among them were the Companions of the Cave.” Such godly men existed in  ancient times as the Qur’ ur declares (Cf. Sura 18).--Al-Ghazali "Deliverance from Error" translated by Richard McCarthy (50).

A year and a half ago, I looked at Al-Ghazali's criticism of the political science of the philosophers. He does not deny that they know the truth, but (to simplify) he insists they are unoriginal and fail to deal with the highest matters focusing primarily on statecraft. They are original because they often just echo (and plagiarize) the wisdom of Scriptures. That is to say, Al-Ghazali treats the Bible and Quran (he uses the plural prophets) as -- inter alia -- contribution to political philosophy. (A position recently defended by Yoram Hazony [recall].)

The charge that they are unoriginal is repeated when it comes to the moral sciences of the philosophers. He treats what is true of their moral philosophy as plagiarized from the Sufis. Moreover, he suggests that they, in fact, used the prestige of the (true) Sufis's teaching, which they pass off as their own, to advance their own (false) original contributions. (For a nice contemporary example of such a strategy: Badiou uses the prestige of set theory to advance his own philosophy.)

The philosophers are contrasted with the Sufis, who are describes as the Godly men, the pillars of the earth. If I understand him correctly, Al-Ghazali is claiming with an appeal to famous story (famous in Christianity and in Islam) of the Companions of the Cave [or Seven  Sleepers], that the kind of knowledge the Sufis posses is not only always available, but also that in each generation there will be people that can, in principle, access this (Sufi-apt) knowledge. This has four implications worth noting:

First, not only does Al-Ghazali share in the philosophers' hierarchical conception of (skills, talents, natures within any) population at any given time, he thinks  that human demography/reproduction is such that the cognitive and spiritual elites will show up in any time and place such that Sufi-apt wisdom is always and everywhere a human possibility. [The philosophers, by contrast, seem to agree with Socrates that the highest type is really just a natural fluke not to be expected.]

Second, Al-Ghazali is, thus, committed to the idea (again with a not to the Quran) that Sufi-wisdom can predate all revelation. To be a Sufi is thus to have access to ancient and, would be, perennial wisdom (God never leaves the world destitute).

Third, unlike political science, the Sufi-apt wisdom (the true part of the philosophers' moral science) is not attributed to the Quran! Al-Ghazali treats the art of living ("the good habits of the soul") as distinct from Quran. It's (formally) not opposed to the revealed text, but it is clearly an alternative path toward the one-and-same-God. One could know how to live without revelation. Interestingly enough, the philosophers are in possession of elements of this alternative path. They are, so to speak, a good starting point but are, from Al-Ghazali's perspective, not its  proper end point (for the cognitive elite, that's Sufism).

Fourth, that is, (and I feel most cautious about this) Al-Aghazali seems to agree with the philosophers' Plato-inspied understanding (recall here; here; and here) of the text of the Quran as representation of the truth (at the level of opinion), but not as the eternal truth itself.

It's a peculiar feature of philosophical history that the boldness (recall; and especially here) of Al-Ghazali goes mentioned so rarely.+*

Zadie Smith On Being a Teacher and Student

The novels we know best have an architecture.  Not only a door going in and another leading out, but rooms, hallways, stairs, little gardens front and back, trapdoors, hidden passageways, etcetera. It's a fortunate rereader who knows half a dozen novels this way in their lifetime. I know one, Pnin, having read it half a dozen times.--Zadie Smith, "Rereading Barthes and Nabokov," in Changing My Mind, 41.

A rereader [recall] can come to inhabit (p. 43) a limited number of novels. Time is scarce, so it's no surprise that we learn the architecture of only a few novels, although some of us may be surprised to learn how few we learn. Smith does not explain the the upper limit (half a dozen), and is discretely silent on how many rereadings are required to come to know a novel's architecture. As it happens, she provides evidence that she required at least five such re-rereadings; Smith decided to inhabit "Pnin," which is a minor scenic attraction en route to the canyon Lolita," (42) and later in the essay she admits that only during the "most recent rereading" (that is sixth time she read it) that she thinks "to kneel in front" of her "desk, place a glass of water at eye level and a position a comb, on end, behind it. Zebra cocktail! Nabokov saw it--now I do. And it's beautiful. Gratitude does not seem out of place." (54)

As it happens, on re-reading Smith's essay, I noticed that in between her analysis of Nabokov and Barthes, and the nature of writing and reading, she weaves two other analyses on subjects close to my troubled heart: first, that of the constitution of meaning (which I will largely ignore here); second, that of teaching (which I will focus on). Near the end of her essay, Smith notes that "Whether one quite approves of it or not, it's a Nabokovian assumption that if you work to give him back what he has given to you, this should be reward enough (for you). His students learned this soon enough." (54) Smith then adds a footnote (13) with quote from Nabokov: "My method of teaching precluded genuine contact with my students. At best they regurgitated a few bits of my brain during examination." (54 n. 13). 

On Smith's rendering, Nabokovian teachers demand from their students a mastery of detail both of the subject matter studied (e.g., novels) and the matter taught (the lectures about these novels, etc.). There is no surplus to be generated by the student; she aims to master all, but no more than the subject studied and the lectures taught about the subject. The Nabokovian teacher is godlike, and the student's attitude qua student is a form of gratitude to the teacher for his gifts (recall this post). The student acquires (quite partial) mastery of a subject, and that is its own reward for a certain type of student.

I don't think Smith means to endorse Nabokovian teachers. For, earlier in her essay, she had remarked (i) that there is more than one type of student, and (ii) that the teacher need not force the students into a particular kind of mold (and i-ii are at odds with Nabokovian position):

To observe these two natural, unschooled reactions is fascinating [qua teacher]: they reveal within the famous ideological debate a more intimate and important question of character, into which a teacher should not necessarily intrude. Why not allow each student to find out for himself what kind of rereader he is? No bad blood need to be spilled over it (as it was when I was in college). After all, you can storm the house of a novel like Barthes, rearranging the furniture as you choose, or you can enter on your knees, like the pilgrim Nabokov thought you were, and try to figure out the cunning design of the place--the house will sand either way. (43)

I am a bit suspicious of the idea that the two reactions she describes -- (A) "to those students who have a tendency to feel humbled before the act of writing, [Barthes'] 'The Death of an Author' is a perverse assault on the privileges of authorship, on the possibility of fixed meaning, even upon 'Truth' itself'  and (B) those students who "are excited to to add to the text's indeterminacy, their own indeterminacy as well" (42) -- are natural and unschooled. Perhaps, they are natural to "writing students" at elite colleges. (For those that like traditional schemas, (A) stands for authority loving types and (B) stands for the freedom-loving types. [Smith tells us she is naturally drawn to (B; 43; see also 49)]) That we teach to multiple souls at once is also a familiar fact of life to teachers who teach in some non-selective environments.

Smith advocates a kind of restraint in which the teacher allows the student to find out for herself what kind of rereader the student is. The problem is that it is not entirely clear that the restraint Smith advocates on the side of teachers also permits the discovery by students of being (say) a kind of Nabokovian rereader. That is to say, it's quite crucial to Smith's advocacy that certain ways of responding to texts are natural and unschooled. But her own text undermines this thought because to become a Nabokovian rereader one must also be schooled by Nabokov or some other teacher that shares in his "vision of total control." (55) This Nabokovian teacher does not permit the existence "of a secondary power directing and diverting," (55)* and so cannot allow a student unschooled nature to remain unschooled inside his classroom.

There is evidence that, Smith recognizes the point of the previous paragraph. Above, I suggested that Smith recognizes two souls. But that's not quite right. She also recognizes a third, educated soul which recognizes that the relationship between author and reader is a "partnership" which is "far more hesitant and delicate than" Barthes's (or Nabokov) allows. In this partnership, author and reader are "stumbling towards meaning simultaneously, together." (56) Smith does not say much to explain that 'simultaneously'--it can't mean what it means either in special relativity or in ordinary common sense. Against Barthes, Smith wants to hold on to the idea that the Author completes the text before the reader reads it. Both writing and reading can be intentional activities, but the meaning of/produced by the text is something that exceeds the Author's intentions, even though she must be willing to (decide to) live with the meaning so unfolded. (An Author can always press delete and restart until the text is submitted.) So, I suspect she means that for Author and reader the meaning of the text is something unfolds as the text unfolds. There is more to be said about her notion of meaning (but that's for another time).

The partnership is a "connection" between the reader and "a consciousness other than" her "own." That is, to read is to connect with bits of somebody else's mind. It is based not on an implicit or explicit contract, but on the reader's "cautious faith." (56) By contrast, writing is an imposition of one's thoughts on imagined/unknown others: "in many ways writing is the act of saying I, of imposing oneself upon other people, of saying listen to me, see it my way, change your mind. It's an aggressive, even a hostile act. You can disguise its aggressiveness all you want..." (55 n. 7 quoting Joan Didion)** Smith is clear that these 'many ways' don't exhaust the act of writing, but they are necessarily a part of it (while also exploring this act simultaneously in her novels [recall here and here]).

To reach the point of allowing for some such partnership, one must be taught to be schooled in reflexes that correct or transform the unschooled natural responses. Frustratingly, Smith is not very elaborate on the ways one is taught to become a hesitating (I have used stuttering) rereader (although it's clear that in her case, it means a giving up an exclusive embrace of freedom). But we can discern at least two ingredients: first, the very practice of rereading is a necessary step in such an education. It's only then that you learn that while you can get nearer and nearer, so to speak, to reality; but you never get near enough because reality is an infinite succession of steps, levels of perception, false bottoms, and hence unquenchable, unattainable, (46, quoting Nabokov). That is, one must become accepting of failure in one's life (51), while not resting in it. Mastery of detail is an indirect means toward recognizing this end.

But second, and this is something that Nabokov does not seem to permit, one must be allowed to recognize that one's loneliness is an original and enduring impulse in reading about another "individual's experience of the world through the unstable medium of language." (56) There is, of course, a lot to be said about all the words in the previous sentence. But here I just want to note that if Smith is right, this requires as a duty on teachers to make space for the recognition of the existence of such loneliness by students (without of course drawing attention to their particular loneliness in front of other students--after all, a a teacher should not necessarily intrude nor embarrass) and then orient this recognition not to their (vain teacherly) selves, but to the thoughts of other worthy, individuals.