"The scholar busies himself with investigations into language, and if it be his desire to go farther afield, he works on history, or, if he would extend his range to the farthest limits, on poetry.
"But which of these paves the way to virtue? Pronouncing syllables, investigating words, memorizing plays, or making rules for the scansion of poetry, what is there in all this that rids one of fear, roots out desire, or bridles the passions?
"The question is: do such men teach virtue, or not? If they do not teach it, then neither do they transmit it. If they do teach it, they are philosophers. Would you like to know how it happens that they have not taken the chair for the purpose of teaching virtue? See how unlike their subjects are; and yet their subjects would resemble each other if they taught the same thing."
--Seneca the Younger, Moral Letters to Lucilius, 88 (tr Gummere)
I have long distinguished between the philosopher, the lover of wisdom, and the scholar, the lover of research, and I'm not sure if I'm relieved or frustrated that the confusion between the two existed as much in Seneca's time as it does today.
When I was in college, most had the assumption that learning existed as a means to getting a professional job. Some seemed to pursue academics for its own sake, but that too was simply another form of a career, jumping on the 'publish or perish' bandwagon of attending conferences and getting tenure.
A few, however, those who were usually overlooked, loved truth for its own sake, regardless of whether it gave them a career or not, because they understood that the only proper end of study was the improvement of the soul. These were always the folks who were kindred spirits to me. One of my few friends in graduate school was an electrician who simply took philosophy classes on his own dime because he loved philosophy. He had nothing to prove, and no one to impress. I learned more from him over a pint of Guinness at the local pub than I did in any class.
I had a professor during my undergraduate years who was shunned by his colleagues because he wrote books for popular consumption, and did not publish serious scholarship. Yet those books have changed countless lives, and played a part in helping many people to become better. That is philosophy, even if it isn't necessarily scholarship. While the former serves others, the latter, on its own, serves only the self.
The depths and technicalities of study are indeed important, but only as a means to character, and never as an end in themselves. I didn't learn to read Latin so I could do better in Law School, or even to analyze the poetry of Virgil or Ovid. I learned Latin so I could read great texts that would in turn bring me closer to knowing myself, my world, and my Creator. I can hardly claim that it did the trick, but that was always the sincere intent.
The ever increasing fracturing of academic disciplines is, I think, a symptom of the love of scholarship at the expense of genuine learning. The fault was entirely my own, but over the years I painted myself into an academic corner. I was no longer qualified to simply be a historian of philosophy, but of Medieval philosophy. It then became not merely Medieval philosophy, but the philosophy of St. Thomas Aquinas, and then of the epistemology of Aquinas. It ended up that I was an 'expert' on only a few lines of text about the status of ideas in the Summa.
I had to struggle to convince my Doctoral Board that I could write a a dissertation comparing Thomas Aquinas and the Enlightenment philosopher Thomas Reid, and what I think troubled most of them was my suggestion that two very different thinkers were considering exactly the same truths. I can hardly cast blame or hold a grudge, because, again, the mistake was mine. I was simply thinking differently than they were about the nature of philosophy.
I have never been a good scholar, because, quite honestly, my heart has never been in it. I have never had the knack, for good or for ill, for making myself look worthwhile. It remains my hope that some day, perhaps a person or two will say that I struggled to be a good philosopher, because in my teaching, whether formal or informal, among my students or among my friends, I tried to help someone become better. That's the dream, at least. . .
I have learned to distinguish the philosopher from the scholar, simply by the relationship of words and actions. The scholar may indeed speak noble truths. The philosopher will put his money where his mouth is, and commit noble deeds, regardless of the consequences to his career or his status. This is why all philosophers, whatever their schooling, training, or point of view, will always remain true friends. They will love exactly the same things, their fellow men, united by the love of a shared truth.
Neither wisdom, nor my neighbor, are ever disposable.
Written 1/2010
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